


When She Heard You Sing

by KChan88



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Bisexual Female Character, Bisexual!Christine, Blood and Injury, Broken Bones, Canon-Typical Violence, Dreams and Nightmares, F/F, Genderbending, Gun Violence, Head Injury, Homophobic Language, Injury, Kidnapping, Lesbian Character, Lesbian!Raoul, Mild Sexual Content, Needles, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Panic Attacks, Past Sexual Assault, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rule 63, Sequel, Sexist Language, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-29
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:27:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 150,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25564315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KChan88/pseuds/KChan88
Summary: A sequel to the She Was Bound to Love You series, featuring a genderbent, lesbian Raoul de Chagny, and a bisexual Christine Daae.A year and a half after the events of the lair, Raoul and Christine are thriving. Christine is a star. Raoul is running the opera house. They're in love. And slowly, Paris is forgetting the scandal and the opera ghost, even if Raoul and Christine can never forget the man behind the specter. But just as Charles Garnier himself is set to attend the premiere of Faust, notes start appearing again.And some old friends have secrets.The question remains: Is the Phantom really gone?
Relationships: Raoul de Chagny/Christine Daaé
Comments: 126
Kudos: 43





	1. That Calm and Dreamy Little Cast of Mind

**Author's Note:**

> I would recommend reading my She Was Bound to Love You series before reading this, because though it's a retelling of the musical with a girl Raoul, things do change.
> 
> If you've read that, this will be a regular multi-chapter, as opposed to a series (that one likely should have been too, but no going back now!)

** Paris. November, 1883.  **

Some things change, as the years pass. Some things, however, things like twenty-three-year-old Raoul de Chagny ignoring her elder brother at the breakfast table, never do.

“Raoul?”

Raoul skims down the page of the newspaper in her hand, not really hearing her brother. Or, choosing not to, until she finds what she’s searching for.

“ _Raoul_?” 

She keeps focusing on the paper, her words half a mutter. “Yes, Philippe?”

“I’m going to speak to our banker today about that new railroad investment, can you come? It’s at two. It’s with the company you preferred, that’s better to their workers.”

Raoul grasps the copy of _Le Petit Parisien_ tighter, her eyes widening when she sees the name _Charles Garnier_.

“ _Raoul de Chagny_ ,” Philippe presses. “Did you hear me?”

“Hmm?” Raoul asks, still reading. “What did you say?”

“I said I’m going to take all of your money that our dear father left you and invest it in a circus on Coney Island. You’ve always said you wanted to see New York.”

Raoul, with her coffee halfway to her lips, jumps, nearly spilling the lot on her brown waistcoat as it sloshes close to the edge.

“Philippe!” she exclaims, finally putting the paper down and furrowing her eyebrows. “You’re not funny.”

“I think I am,” Philippe protests. “What’s so interesting in the paper that you’re ignoring me?”

“Oh.” Raoul sips the coffee she almost spilled. “It was speculation that Garnier himself might attend the opera soon. I want to make sure everything’s right, if so.” She smiles at her brother, shaking her head. “I’m sorry, I’m just distracted. I probably can’t meet you today, but I trust you with my financials, as usual. I can look over the papers with you, later.”

“There is one other thing,” Philippe adds. “We have the dinner invitation from the Duc de Barrand tomorrow evening, don’t forget.”

Raoul huffs. “Philippe…”

“Don’t _Philippe_ me, dear girl,” he chides. “You know they’ve been thinking of giving money to the opera, which, if you desire to lower some of the ticket prices as you’ve discussed, you will be needing. And they’re old friends of our parents. They’ll be expecting you.”

Raoul groans, taking another sip of her coffee. “So I must beg wealthy people to make the opera more open to people less fortunate?”

Philippe raises his eyebrows. “Raoul. _You_ are wealthy. And yes.”

Raoul closes her paper, running her fingernails back and forth across her palms. “I know people like the duc only invite Christine and I in particular because they feel they must, either because of you, or because of the opera,” she admits. “Or otherwise to have me there as spectacle. _Raoul de Chagny, the great circus act of Paris_.”

“Raoul…”

“It’s true,” Raoul interrupts. “They think my politics too progressive, because some of them are still not-so-secretly royalists, or they know Christine is more than my companion and judge me for that. Even if the opera scandal is in the past it still bubbles in the background, no matter how well the opera might be doing. The duc and his wife are different, I suppose, but the other people there won’t have old family friend fondness to recall.”

“You have friends in our circles,” Philippe says, a little more softly. “Celine. Clara. Gabrielle. Vivienne. Just to name a few. Juliette and Eloise will be there. Felix will be there,” he continues, speaking of his longtime closest friend. “I know you feel more comfortable with the people at the opera or the people you socialize with in Monmartre, but I like having my sister with me, and you also have a responsibility not to abandon those who knew you and our family before your new life started.”

“All right.” Raoul gives her brother a half-smile, unable, usually, to deny him anything. “For you, Philippe.”

Philippe leans forward, clasping Raoul’s fingers briefly. “For you, too. I know there are people who have been cruel to you, to our family more generally after everything at the opera, but the French appreciate a smart woman, you know. Far more than our English friends. Some of the people who don’t frequent the opera house or Monmartre might surprise you.”

Raoul squeezes Philippe’s hand before letting go, knowing just how much he worries for her more than he ever used to. That night she came back half-dead from the opera remains with him, she knows, even if he doesn’t speak about it often, and she tries to take his mothering with grace rather than complaint. 

“Christine!” Philippe exclaims as Christine comes into the dining room wearing a walking dress of dusty rose, her curls pinned up perfectly by Madeline. “You must cheer Raoul up, I’m afraid I’ve ruined her morning.”

“Oh?” she asks, winking at Raoul. “How so?”

“I’m making you both go to the dinner we were invited to tomorrow evening,” Philippe tells her. “I’m afraid she’s upset with me.”

Raoul rolls her eyes fondly, leaning up so Christine can put a quick peck on her lips. “I am not.”

“I think your charm is enough to see us through,” Christine says, sitting down and pouring a cup of coffee just as Victor comes in to refill it, the chocolatey smell curling into the air. Christine thanks him, and their long-time cook lends her a smile, all of their staff having grown deeply fond of her.

“Or everyone’s great admiration of your talent,” Raoul teases. “My wife, the prima donna.”

Christine shakes her head, but her eyes brighten, too. Carlotta, while still starring from time to time, has become interested in tutoring the younger sopranos while Piangi teaches the tenors, which leaves Christine center-stage more often than not.

“ _My_ wife, the violinist and business-woman,” Christine says, a little smirk on her lips that makes Raoul blush.

Philippe shakes his head. “Goodness, how do I live with you dreamy romantics!” He gestures at the vase of red roses on the table, a fixture now. “Raoul…” he says, watching her drink the last of her coffee. “Is that….did you have a first cup of coffee before I came downstairs?”

Raoul stares at the bottom of her cup. “…no.”

“Raoul!” Philippe exclaims. “You’re only supposed to have one cup in the morning, Dr. Aubert said it affects your sleep and your nerves. And you were down here before me, which tells me you weren’t sleeping.”

“I’ve been sleeping well, lately,” Raoul says, and it is the truth. “Just not last evening.”

She’s struggled on and off with sleep and sometimes those unsettling attacks of nerves ever since that night in the lair, though the four months have seen it ease, so she’s not sure why last night was an outlier. Dr. Aubert says the events of the lair might have given her a touch of what some call “irritable heart” which they see in soldiers or people who have been in railroad accidents. She doesn’t like the term, herself, because irritable is not exactly what she would use to describe the moments when her heart races and her breath catches and her stomach sloshes. Panic, is the word, panic born from things that trigger bad memories, but then…

Well she doesn’t like to think of herself as someone who panics, either.

“You were drinking coffee with Andre in the office yesterday.” Christine quirks one eyebrow.

“Darling, you wound me by betraying me to my fussy older brother.” She looks sidelong at Philippe, trying desperately not to grin. “Who in his _age_ finds himself mothering me constantly.”

“My _age_!” Philippe sputters. “I am forty-three years old!” He shakes his head, biting his lip against a smile. “Scoundrel of girl.”

An hour later finds Raoul and Christine out the door. Raoul has her violin in hand, serving, these days, as an alternating second-chair violinist—Bernard, their usual, has new grandchildren, and is happy to split the time—in addition to her managing duties. They walk to the opera in the cool autumn morning instead of having Marcel drive them, the sun shining bright overhead.

Christine tucks her arm into Raoul’s as they go, an easy, affectionate thing between them, though Raoul often longs to take her hand.

“I’m sure the dinner will be fine,” Christine says, apparently noting that Raoul’s less talkative than usual. “You have wonderful manners, and when people aren’t busy being gossips they adore you. Let’s try and not pay the snide people any mind and see what might happen.”

Raoul smiles, looking over at Christine, whose chestnut hair sparkles in the sunlight. The confidence she’s gained over the past year makes her yet more breathtaking, and Raoul’s been glad to see it.

“You’re right, as usual,” Raoul says. “I’m sorry it puts me out of sorts, sometimes. I used to not care what people thought. I don’t _care_ , exactly, I just…”

A beat of silence rests between them, and Raoul knows why it bothers her more, now. Both of them do. She thinks of that night of the masked ball, and the ghost laying her bare before all of Parisian society, and they didn’t need to whisper anymore. They just knew. Erik doesn’t occupy her thoughts like he did before, but the marks are there, still. The way he left his fingerprints smeared across the glass of their lives that anyone might peer through and see.

“But,” Raoul continues, putting those thoughts away. “I am excited to begin full rehearsals for Faust. Carlotta is content to be Marthe?”

“Quite pleased.” Christine grins, looking playful. “She says she finds me more suited to Marguerite besides, and she’s eager to tutor Adrienne, who will make a dashing Siébel if she just lets herself feel confident. I think she’s a bit afraid of Carlotta, I shall have to tell her not to be.”

“Part of me wishes you were playing Siébel,” Raoul teases. “I can’t say I wouldn’t like to see you in those trousers. I _did_ like them when you were in Il Muto, I just never got the chance to say.”

Christine slips her arm out of Raoul’s, putting a melodramatic hand over her chest. “Why Raoul de Chagny, you impudent girl!”

_Insolent girl!_

Raoul shakes the voice out of her head, reaching out for Christine’s hand as they come up to the steps of the opera house, tugging her a little closer than she ought.

“Only for you, darling.”

It’s Christine’s turn to blush, giggling as they go up the stairs, where a dozen pink roses wait at the door, many bearing notes for _Mademoiselle Daae_.

“Hmm,” Raoul says, amused, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear that the wind blew out of her chignon. “I suppose they either don’t know, _or_ they suppose they can gallantly win you from me. I can’t criticize the effort. Though it’s red, obviously.”

Christine breaks the stem of one, tucking it into Raoul’s waistcoat pocket as they step inside, where they’re greeted cheerfully by Andre.

“Monsieur Garnier is _coming_!” he exclaims without even saying hello. “Little Simone brought the note in this morning,” he continues, mentioning the twelve-year-old girl who’s started running messages and doing some cleaning in exchange for pay and sometimes ballet lessons with Madame Giry. “For the premiere of Faust! We shall leave all the scandal behind after this.”

Any worries about the dinner wash away when Raoul sees the gaiety in his face. Tickets sales were middling, at first, people frightened away by stories of the opera ghost and the scandal of who was in charge, before a sudden burst of interest, perhaps _because_ of the scandals, and hopefully also the art. Now people come steadily, and if Garnier comes they might start selling out more often, and any who stayed away will mark his attendance as validation of the enterprise.

And Raoul wants it. She wants it because everyone here has worked so hard over the past year, and it’s been the most exciting and fulfilling time of her life, despite the lingering nerves over everything that happened. Christine at her side. Christine _thriving_. And for herself, finally feeling like she might have found a place for her dreamy-headed heart.

Andre chatters at them until he’s pulled away by Carlotta and Piangi, who wave at Christine and Raoul. Meg catches them soon after, though she looks…bothered.

“What’s wrong?” Christine says, immediately.

Meg has been near contagious with joy recently, finally having earned her place as the prima shortly after the opera re-opened. She’s also been courting one of the new tenors, Laurent, for the past few months.

“Maman was meant to meet Laurent and I yesterday at the café to get to know him a touch better, and she didn’t arrive!” Meg exclaims, giving a pout, her blonde curls bouncing. “She came home later and said she’d forgotten to tell me she had an appointment to see the doctor about her headaches, but she was being…strange.”

Christine tugs Meg into her nearby dressing room, and Raoul follows. It’s not the dressing room from before, which has been, out of caution, locked up to this day. This dressing room is brighter and larger and contains a free-standing mirror, at Christine’s request.

“Sorry,” Christine says. “I just didn’t want her hearing us if she was nearby. She heard everything when we were younger.”

“I don’t like talking about her like this,” Meg confesses. “She’s just been…” she twists her fingers, and Raoul, not for the first time feels suspicious of the ballet mistress. “Odd. Going places last minute, and such. It’s not like her. She likes her routine. It started slowly at first but it’s been more, recently. Where could she be going, is what I don’t understand.”

“Do you want to come stay with us, for a few nights?” Christine asks, catching Raoul’s eye. “There’s plenty of room, and it might be fun.”

“Perhaps soon,” Meg agrees, brightening a little. “But if I go right now, she’ll know _I_ know something is off. Whatever…that may be.” She glances at the clock in the corner of the room. “We should go, or Monsieur Reyer will be beside himself. First rehearsal off-book, after all.”

They go quickly down the hallway—Raoul’s joining the orchestra for rehearsal, as she’ll be playing for a few of the performances, then she’s set to go over the books with Andre, after, while Christine goes for her first costume fitting. Raoul spots a flash of fair hair out of the corner of her eye as she lays her violin case down on her chair, giving a quick smile to Bernard, the usual second-chair.

“Hello there, Simone,” she says stepping out of the pit and toward the young girl. “All right today?”

With Madame Giry and Meg having moved out of the old ballet dormitories, the ballet corps now live outside of the opera house, or Raoul would suggest putting Simone up there. She lives nearby, she said, though sometimes Raoul wonders if she’s telling the truth for how much she lingers around the opera house when she’s done for the day.

Simone gives a shy wave as she steps away from her conversation with one of the newer stagehands, Jacques, who is the brother of Eloise and Alexandre’s housekeeper. When they were looking for more staff to do backstage work—some, understandably unwilling to return after Joseph Buquet’s death during Il Muto and the stagehand’s death during Don Juan—Eloise seemed eager to help Raoul sort through the applicants. Raoul gets along better with her sister now, and she’s glad of it.

“I’m all right, Mademoiselle de Chagny,” Simone says. “Did you see the note from Monsieur Garnier?”

Raoul sits down and pats the seat next to her. Simone must want to watch the rehearsal, having somehow earned Monsieur Reyer’s rare affection.

“I did.” Raoul spots Christine on stage, who raises a hand in greeting. “Thank you for bringing it.”

“Monsieur Andre was telling me that you have been learning savate,” Simone proclaims, excitement gleaming in her eyes. “I’ve seen boys do that, but they said girls couldn’t which I think is silly and…” she trails off, her eyes going wide as she turns shy again.

“I have been,” Raoul answers. “And you’re right.” She winks, making Simone laugh. “Those boys are silly. Girls can learn savate if there’s someone to teach them.”

Simone studies Raoul for a moment, eyeing her green skirt and the matching morning coat, a brass pocket-watch chain hanging from the pocket of her waistcoat.

“I didn’t know ladies could dress like that,” she says with awe. “Before I saw you.”

Raoul touches Simone’s nose with the tip of her finger. “I like to do things a little differently.”

Monsier Reyer beckons Raoul over, so she bids Simone goodbye, going over to pick her violin. As she draws her bow across, she doesn’t worry about Garnier and the pressure of his attendance. She doesn’t worry about the dinner tomorrow night. She just thinks of how her life has worked out, and gets lost in the music. 

* * *

“Get a little closer to me with that kick,” Jules says, gesturing Raoul forward. “If you were actually going for me you need that power behind it.”

Raoul, drenched from the hour-long session, does as he asks, giving it one last go.

“Good!” Jules exclaims, clapping Raoul on the shoulder. “Good, your fencing experience pays off well here, I think. They do call savate fencing of the hands and feet, you know.”

Raoul grins, taking the towel Christine hands her and moving away so she doesn’t drip on the notes resting in Christine’s lap. She’s started giving Raoul’s niece Estelle—and some of her friends—singing lessons, which she often works on while Raoul does this. Marcel—their now driver who helped them after the graveyard and the lair, asked his partner Jules if he would teach Raoul savate a few months ago when she was looking for ways to learn self-defense.

 _And_ after she asked other establishments to teach her, and they said no.

Fencing, Philippe could manage to find a tutor for. Savate, a sport with rougher origins, less so.

But Jules, a former sailor who currently works as a baker, was more than happy.

“I’ve not seen someone be such a match for Jules,” Marcel says. “You’re a natural, Raoul. Don’t you think, Christine?”

Christine nods, giving Marcel a smile as she packs up her notes. “I do. I hate to say it, but we have to go, Raoul, that dinner.”

They’re riding with Philippe this evening, so Marcel drives them home before bidding them farewell for the day.

“I do adore Marcel and Jules,” Christine says as they come inside, peering at Raoul. “Although, Madeline might murder you, you’re going to have to bathe before you dress.”

Raoul laughs, and Christine helps her dash up the stairs before Philippe sees the state of her, feeling light after the hour of savate. It makes her feel safe, learning something to defend herself—or others—that doesn’t require a weapon, though she does of course, love her sword cane, which she has _not_ lost, recently.

Four hours later she’s in the Duc de Barrand’s grand drawing room after dinner, the soft murmur of conversation in her ear. Despite some looks thrown her way, the dinner was not as bad as it might have been, but she does enjoy this less formal portion more, where she might talk to who she chooses rather than being subject to the table’s conversation. Or prying, as it might occur.

“What are you reading, Raoul?” Raoul’s old school friend Clara asks, her new engagement ring shining in the light of the small chandelier above them. “You do have good taste.”

“I’m reading a Hugo I haven’t before,” Raoul answers, taking a sip of her wine, a sweet red that lingers on her tongue. “ _The Man Who Laughs_.”

Celine, standing next to Clara, pauses with her glass halfway to her mouth. “Doesn’t that one poke fun at the aristocracy?”

Raoul winks, and it makes Christine laugh. She looks radiant tonight in her deep blue gown, the long white gloves fitting her perfectly. Raoul herself feels a bit like a dressed-up doll, forced to step back into more usual women’s clothing rather than her strange amalgam for these sort of occasions, but Christine always manages to look astonishing in anything.

Or, perhaps Raoul is just biased.

“Oh, just a touch. I’m just following in the grand French tradition of criticizing the monarchy, and given the monarchists are dying out, I think I’m quite safe in doing so. It’s surely not the most radical thought I have in my head.”

Celine shakes her head with a smirk, finishing off her drink. “Bold as ever, I see.”

“Raoul would never be otherwise,” Clara adds. “I quite like Victor Hugo. Feisty man. Though my father says he’s too much a socialist, so I keep it to myself.”

“I saw an opera based on one of his plays a few years ago,” Christine adds, looking, much to Raoul’s relief, rather comfortable in the setting. “ _La Gioconda._ I liked it quite a bit.”

Raoul falls silent, watching Christine talk with her old friends. Christine is shy, sometimes, but once she’s comfortable her performing skills seem to make things like this easier, and she’s never had a great problem when Philippe has them come to functions like these. She feels as if _she_ has more trouble with them, and she grew up in this world.

Juliette comes up behind them then, pressing a kiss to Raoul’s cheek before tugging on her hand. “Terribly sorry to interrupt, ladies, but I must borrow my sister for a few minutes, if that’s all right?”

“Quite fine,” Clara answers. “We’ll keep Christine company should any old biddies opt to try and bother her.”

“Raoul,” Juliette chides, though with affection. “You know you can’t spend the entire gathering only with people you would _usually_ spend time with.”

“I know,” Raoul says, her words half an apology. “I only feel silly in this clothing,” she continues, gesturing back at the bustle of her light blue dress. “I think you and Christine look lovely in them I just…I’ve just grown used to wearing what I like.” She fiddles with her gloves, looking up at Juliette. **“** I forget that I can’t, as easily, on nights like these.”

“It’s not your usual, I know,” Juliette replies, a little softer. “But the Duc de Barrand and his wife want to speak with you about the opera. Philippe has them over by the fire.”

Raoul stops a moment, gaping at her sister. “They want to speak _positively_ about the opera?”

They’ve opted to work with multiple patrons—in addition to their own pledged money—rather than just one family, to make things more equitable. They have a wealthy merchant family or two on the donor list, but old money like this, money like theirs, is something new. Frankly many remaining noble families hang on to the old ways and aren’t as rich as they once were, but the duc and his family are an exception.

“Yes.” Juliette takes Raoul’s hands, her smile glowing with enthusiasm. “You and Christine and Andre and everyone have done a splendid job, and they wanted to speak with you. You’re brilliant, my darling, you’ll be fine.”

Raoul feels confidence shoot through her. The confidence of the girl she was before the events that began two years ago, but different, as well. She has been a _de Chagny_ all her life, and _de Chagny_ means money and privilege and expectations. It means she should not be who she is, but who she is in inevitable. Before the opera, before Christine, she knew she was searching for something. Someone to share her life, most of all, that kind of love she craved deep in her soul. But she was also looking for purpose, something to do other than read and play her violin and flit about Paris. Learning how to write music led her to the opera patronage, and the opera led her to so much in her life. So many things are closed off to her, as a woman, professions, and the like, especially when women of her class are not expected to work, however much the world might be changing.

“Raoul, dear,” the duchess says as Raoul and Juliette reach the couple, who stand near the crackling fire with Philippe and his old friend Felix, along with Eloise, her husband Alexandre., and Juliette’s husband Francois. The de Barrands were friends of Raoul’s parents, and helped Philippe in the early days after the Comte’s death. “How are you?”

“Wonderful, thank you.” Raoul kisses both the duchess’ cheeks before turning to her husband, who’s gazing on her with a glass of brandy in hand.

“Your brother’s been telling me what a splendid job you’ve been doing with the opera,” the duc says. “We attended the run of Meyerbeer you did recently, the…” he waves his hand in the air, searching for the title.

“ _Robert le diable_ ,” Raoul supplies.

“Yes. Mademoiselle Daae was lovely as Isabelle…” he lingers here, as if he’s not sure what he ought to say, and Raoul feels that in the silence. It’s hard to pretend, hard to not say _my wife_ , when speaking of Christine to people like this. To anyone outside a small circle, but here, especially, she cannot. “Her voice,” he continues, recovering himself. “Astonishing.”

“Yes, and the dancing!” the duchess exclaims. “Mademoiselle Giry was wonderful. The Ballet of the Nuns left me breathless I must say.”

Raoul meets Philippe’s eye for just a moment before going back to the conversation. “That opera is an old Parisian favorite,” she says. “We were hoping to get back to some of the roots of the Paris Opera.”

“The Opéra-Comique makes for quite a nice evening,” the duc continues. “But nothing quite replaces the Paris Opera, does it?”

“I agree wholeheartedly.” Raoul inclines her head. “Biased though I may be.” She squares her shoulders, deciding she’ll be daring. “Everyone at the opera has worked hard to move past a situation that was not their fault, and hope that an appreciation for music and art will make Paris understand that the madness of one man should not stain the institution as a whole. And I’m hoping with more generosity from our patrons, we can open the opera’s doors to people who might not have been able to afford to attend in the past. Perhaps I’m too bold, monsieur, but with all your support of the arts in France, I’d like to think you would want to be a part of something like that.”

There’s a long, drawn-out pause.

The duc smiles.

“I do have an appreciation for people who are direct with me,” he says. “Leave a list of times with my valet before you leave this evening, and I’ll choose the one that works best for me to come and meet with you and Monsieur Andre. How does that sound?”

“It sounds perfect, thank you.” Raoul shakes his hand, which only seems to make him like her more. “I’ll do that.”

“Do you think Mademoiselle Daae might sing for us this evening?” the duchess asks. She leans in close, like she might be sharing a conspiracy. “There were a few families here this evening who did not like that we invited her, but they’ve left already, and I think the remaining parties would enjoy it.”

Raoul swallows back the sharp words she wants to say, keeping the smile plastered on her face, because the opera is a dream that belongs to them both, and she won’t ruin this good opportunity. “I can certainly ask her.”

The duc and duchess go after that, leaving Raoul alone, for a moment, with her family.

“Good lord, Raoul,” Alexandre says, tossing back his brandy. “Perhaps we ought to think more on putting women in the legislature, how persuasive you are.”

“Hear hear.” Philippe’s old friend Felix raises his glass in Raoul’s direction. “I agree with the marquis.”

“I told her she could do it.” Philippe claps Raoul’s shoulder. “I was right.”

“As usual,” Eloise chimes in.

“Eloise…” Philippe glances over. “You’re teasing me.”

Eloise shoots Raoul a half-smile. “Only a little. But you were brilliant, Raoul.”

Juliette slips an arm around Raoul’s waist as Eloise and Philippe bicker good-naturedly, gesturing out at Christine, who is laughing with Clara and Celine, a few other women having gathered around her. Yet more stand nearby, looking judgmental, but still, the sound of Christine’s laugh in this kind of place makes Raoul feel at ease.

“See?” Juliette whispers in her ear. “Not as bad as you thought it would be was it? Soon, people will forget about the ghost entirely, and they will just think of the success of the opera under your management.”

Not everyone will forget their opinions on her relationship with Christine. Not everyone will like the way she steps out of line with the expectations of her gender. But they don’t need everyone, they just need enough, and even if the ghost left his marks on her, and on Christine, perhaps the opera house itself _can_ leave the scandal behind.

“Yes,” she says, pressing a kiss to Juliette’s cheek. “Yes, I suppose they will.” 

* * *

All things considered, Christine doesn’t like being in the opera house late at night when there isn’t a performance. It’s too quiet. It’s too…haunted. They usually keep their rehearsals to mornings and afternoons, but tonight things ran long and she got caught up talking to two of her friends in the ballet, some of the girls still in their adolescence who look up to her. Meg is with Laurent, tonight, so as Christine says goodbye to her friends, she thinks that she and Raoul might be the only ones left in the massive halls of the Palais Garnier at all.

She smiles as she walks from backstage toward the managers’ office just off the grand staircase, the gas lamps low and shadows casting across the floor. She does go a little faster than normal, but she reminds herself that this is their opera house, now. It is not a place to fear but a place to rejoice. A place to laugh and sing and celebrate art.

Still, the things that happened here will never entirely leave her. This is a reclamation, in the end. A reclamation of all that is good about this place. A reclamation of her own talent from her tutor’s hands, even if her singing would not be the same without him. Erik’s voice is not in her head like it used to be, but it is in these halls, sometimes. It’s in the way she fears an errant sound, or a bad dream that clings to her long after she’s awoken.

She hears that voice say _Christine, I love you,_ not in that silky smooth, hypnotic way, but in pain, in grief, in awe as she steps around the corner. It washes away entirely when she comes inside the office, a soft chuckle slipping past her lips.

Raoul is asleep.

She’s asleep with her head resting on her arms and her new gold-rimmed reading glasses sliding down her nose, the operas accounts books spread out on the desk next to her violin case. Christine stands in the doorway a moment, smiling wider as warmth floods into her chest. Half of Raoul’s chignon has come loose, strands of sandy fair hair spilling down.

Christine loves Raoul every day of her life, but sometimes, in tiny moments like these, it’s nearly overwhelming just how much.

Footsteps echo behind her and she jumps, pulled out of her contemplation.

“My apologies, Christine, dear,” Madame Giry says, stopping in front of the doorway. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

“Oh.” Christine clears her throat, hoping she can act normally after Meg’s concerns just the other day. “That’s all right. I didn’t know you were still here.”

“Some of the girls left a bit of a mess in their dressing room,” Madame Giry replies with that same stern fondness Christine knew while training under her. “I shall have to remind them to do better.” She peers around the doorway. “I see Raoul has fallen asleep in the office again. It’s been a while since I’ve seen her do that.”

Raoul used to do it more, after they first returned, the excitement and the stress of reopening the opera, along with her trouble with nerves—both of their troubles—often stealing sleep in the night, which made her tired during the day. It’s been much better the past several months, the last few nights being an exception.

“Too much time with the accounts, I think,” Christine says, not wanting to tell Madame Giry any of this. “She’s diligent with the numbers but she doesn’t much care for them.”

Madame Giry smiles a little, and Christine just wishes she knew what was going in in her mind. She doesn’t seem to bear them ill will and yet she’s strange, too. Stranger even than before. Keeping secrets, even if Christine doesn’t know them.

“I’d best get home,” Madame Giry answers. “God only knows when Meg will return, she is smitten with that tenor. But he does make her smile.”

“It’s good to see her happy,” Christine adds. “Goodnight, Madame Giry. Will you be all right getting home?”

Madame Giry waves off the concern. “I’ll get a fiacre, dear. Good night.”

Christine watches her go, then steps further into the office, bending over to brush some of Raoul’s fallen hair out of her face.

“My love,” she whispers. “You’ve fallen asleep.”

Raoul doesn’t budge.

“Sweetheart?” Christine asks, putting a hand on Raoul’s shoulder.

Raoul jolts awake, shaking her head and righting herself before looking at Christine, one cheek red and splotchy.

“Goodness,” she mutters. “I’m sorry, I don’t even remember falling asleep. Andre left for the night and I must have dozed off.”

Christine leans her back against the edge of the desk. “You didn’t sleep well again last night. Maybe we should try some of that herbal tea you were using before, that Dr. Aubert suggested.”

Raoul nods, giving a sheepish little smile as she adjusts her glasses, which Christine finds terribly charming. It’s a small delight to come upon Raoul wearing them while she’s reading, that frown of concentration on her face.

“I just want everything to be perfect for Faust in a few weeks, when Monsieur Garnier comes,” she admits. “It will give validation to what we’ve been doing here.”

“I think the art itself is validation,” Christine replies. “And the fact that we’ve slowly but surely been filling all the seats. But…” she continues when Raoul’s about to interject. “If we start selling out more nights than not, we can have those lower-priced tickets we’ve talked about, and hire some more people backstage. I know we both want to open the opera’s doors to more people. Hopefully the duc’s funds will help with that, too, so that you and Philippe aren’t having to put in quite as much.”

Raoul’s eyes brighten. “I love you. You know that?”

Christine grins, hefting herself up to sit on the desk. “I do indeed. Come here?”

Raoul gets up, coming to stand between Christine’s knees. Christine gently takes Raoul’s glasses off, folding them and placing them down on the desk.

“You made your hair fall out,” Christine teases, picking up one of the fallen pins. “Let me fix it or when we leave people will think we were up to something in here.”

Raoul quirks an eyebrow, her hands going to Christine’s waist. “Aren’t we? Up to something, that is?”

Christine laughs, pinning up Raoul’s stray hair as neatly as she can from this angle before Raoul leans down to kiss her.

After a few moments, Christine thinks she hears an echo, somewhere, but things _do_ echo, in here, and it must be nothing. Nothing more than the ghosts in her own mind trying to make her afraid. The momentary prickle of fear vanishes as she kisses Raoul harder, a laugh burgeoning in her throat at Raoul’s little noise of surprise.

“We ought to continue this delightful activity at home,” Raoul whispers against Christine’s neck as she pulls away to place a kiss there. “Philippe’s out tonight, so we can just go straight to…”

She breaks off, jumping at the sound of…something. Something that wasn’t just in Christine’s own mind, this time. There’s a second sound somewhere in the vicinity of the staircase just beyond the office, something lightweight hitting the floor like it’s been dropped from a height and slapping down onto the marble and….

Was that the swish of a cloak, or is that only her memory?

They wouldn’t hear a sound like this, when the opera house is full during the day.

They can hear it now.

Christine’s whole body goes rigid. She slides off the desk, Raoul immediately taking her hand and seizing their things as they rush out of the office and toward the grand staircase.

There’s no one. Nothing.

Nothing except…

They draw closer, and just a few feet away from the stairs, there’s an envelope drenched in silver moonlight.

Christine’s breath catches, and she has to remind herself to breathe as Raoul bends over, picking it up with one trembling hand.

That’s when she sees it—Raoul’s name and Andre’s written in bloody red ink.

“Outside,” Christine says, softly, urgently. “Let’s go outside.”

Raoul nods and they all but run out the front door, the sound of the lock resounding in their ears. It’s a normal Parisian evening past the doors of the opera house, lovers and friends out strolling past 9 p.m., some of their evenings only beginning. Raoul pulls them into the safety of one of the streetlights, and when she slides the letter out of the envelope, a half dozen red rose petals spill out, floating like blood to the ground.

Christine thinks of the red rose Raoul gave her that night of Hannibal. Of the ones in her bouquet at their wedding. And the ones in a vase at home. She will not let whatever this is take her favorite flower from her. She won’t let it take this opera house.

Marcel’s waiting in the carriage nearby, but neither of them make for it, both frozen to the spot.

Raoul visibly steadies herself as she opens the note so they can read together.

_Mademoiselle de Chagny and Monsieur Andre,_

_After my long absence, I am deeply pleased to see the success of my opera house._

_It would seem, happily, that you learned some lessons from our time together. In less pleasing news, I see you have blocked off all entrances to my former home, but rest assured, that is not enough to be rid of me._

_Along with my return, I will also expect the return of my salary. Leave 20,000 francs in the locked dressing room in a week’s time, or you will not like the result._

_Also, I do believe the time has come to replace our second chair violinist. Bernard is growing old and plays rather out of tune, does he not? And I’m afraid a real musician must step in someday, Mademoiselle de Chagny, though I applaud your attempts._

Raoul reaches down for Christine’s hand, holding it tight in her own as if afraid either of them might be whisked away.

 _No. No. No,_ This can’t be real. It’s another prank, like the letters they got in the aftermath. It must be. There’s been nothing else. No voice. No sign. And it hasn’t even mentioned her, yet. Something isn’t right, but this can’t be Erik.

Can it?

Raoul reads the rest aloud, her words growing hoarse.

_Please pass on my admiration to Christine. I’m glad to see her become the star she was always meant to be._

_I remain, of course, your obedient servant._

Raoul meets Christine’s gaze as she recites the signature that breaks their world open again.

_O.G._


	2. A Formidable Mental Game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Raoul and Philippe argue. Christine wonders if the notes are coming from Erik, or some new ghost eager to haunt them. And as another incident sends fear jolting through the opera house, something even stranger happens outside its doors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter titles here are various references to the book! Just as an aside. 
> 
> There are a couple of references here to various herbs they used in the 19th century for "hysteria" i.e., any mental health issue. Here I mention valerian and hypericum. Not a lot of great treatment for anxiety and PTSD in the 1880s, unfortunately.
> 
> Warning for direct mentions of a noose in this chapter.

Raoul’s heart has been racing for four days.

She stands in front of the full-length mirror in the bedroom she shares with Christine, trying to sort out her bow tie. She brushes at her skirt next, which seems is desirous of wrinkling any time she moves. Her mind jumps back to that night of Don Juan when she stood in front of this same mirror in her old room down the hall, wondering if she would die.

Christine’s sitting in a nearby chair, ready for dinner in a stunning dark red dress made of velvet, a black band around the waist in a delicate floral pattern. Raoul gazes at her for a moment, losing track of her thoughts. Losing track of her worries.

“Raoul?”

Raoul jolts. “Hmm?”

“You’re staring at me.”

“Sorry.” Raoul shakes her head, blushing a little. “I was just thinking you look lovely. Red suits you.”

Christine laughs, the sound like a tinkle of quiet quarter notes. “I don’t mind if you stare at me, you just looked lost in thought.”

Juliette, Francois, Eloise, and Alexandre come once a week so they might all have dinner together, and now is no exception, whatever strange notes they might be getting at the opera.

Or perhaps Philippe is determined _because_ of it.

“Here…” Christine gets up, coming over and fixing Raoul’s errant neckwear, her hand brushing affectionately across the silk collar of Raoul’s black jacket with the golden embroidery in the pattern of small roses. “And your skirt’s not wrinkled, stop smoothing it.”

“Thank you, darling.” Raoul kisses Christine softly in gratitude, more words escaping her lips a moment after as her thoughts turn from Christine’s loveliness and back to the anxiety at hand. “Why do you think it’s not from him? The note, I mean.”

Christine puts one hand on her hip. “Raoul, we have dinner any moment.”

“I know, but. Please just tell me again.”

“I didn’t say I was _certain_ it wasn’t. I just have a suspicion it might not be.”

Raoul turns away from the mirror, leaving her own reflection behind. “Am I silly for worrying? Are you _not_ worried?”

“No,” Christine says, leading Raoul into their little sitting room. Voices come up the stairs, and footsteps too, but no one has called them down, yet. “And yes, of course I am.”

“Christine,” Raoul presses as they both sit down, and she nearly accidentally topples the two books resting on the small table—the new Emile Zola for Christine, and _Indiana_ by George Sand for her. “You’re doing that sort of thing where you don’t really answer.”

Christine sighs. “Raoul, please. I’m not shying away. I just don’t have an answer as to who it could be. I just am not convinced it’s Erik. Not yet.”

“I just…” Raoul rubs a hand over her face. “I’m trying to understand why you would give him the benefit of the doubt. I wish I could think of him with something other than hatred, for your sake I wish that, but I can’t. I know you have some kind memories of him, that you saw him more clearly that night when he let us go that I was able to. But I can’t forgive him. Not yet.”

Christine bites her lip, pausing for a moment. “And now _you’re_ doing that sort of thing where you assume you know what I’m thinking. I _haven’t_ forgiven him, yet, no matter that I feel sad for him. Either for what he did to me or to you. Even if I forgive him for me, I might not ever for what he did to you. But yes, our experiences with Erik were very different. And that’s why we’re thinking differently now.”

Raoul wants to say _don’t be angry at me_ , but she doesn’t, not when it’s a mark of Christine’s trust in her that she’ll show annoyance at all. It makes sense, after Erik, whose anger and displeasure ruled Christine’s every move, before it even truly exploded.

“But the O.G. signature is his,” Raoul protests. “Those fake notes we got in the aftermath, those were all signed things like _the phantom_ or _the ghost_. The O.G. is so specific to know.”

“It is.” Christine softens a little. “But not impossible. Not to make too much of myself, but the mention of me felt like an afterthought, almost.”

“No, that’s a definitely a good point.” Raoul rubs at the old scar around her neck through her shirt. It’s almost faded away, but there’s still a thin white mark there. “The specific amount of francs was in there, too.”

Christine reaches for the hand at Raoul’s neck, stopping the nervous motion. “That made it into the papers more than once. And I…” Christine stops here, her voice a touch shaky, so Raoul takes her other hand that isn’t already holding hers. “There was no use of the word angel. Or angel of music. It seems…odd. Not all the previous notes had that, but several did.” She pauses again. “Others at the opera obviously saw notes where he called himself the angel of music, but only a few people knew that I thought he’d been sent by my father—you, Meg, Madame. Later Philippe and Juliette. I only think any angel reference missing might mean something.”

“It is interesting that this happened not long after Meg said her mother was acting strangely…” Raoul mutters. “You and I were both wondering if she had contact with Erik after knowing about that note he sent us and now…” She shakes her head. “I don’t want to get between Meg and her mother, but perhaps we should finally ask her about that.”

“Perhaps,” Christine says. “She seemed normal when I spoke to her the other night but…”

The sound of laughter interrupts them, and a moment later there’s a knock on the door.

“Everyone’s here,” Philippe says as he opens it at Raoul’s assent. “I was just showing Francois and Alexandre my new cigars. Perhaps you can join us after dinner, Raoul?”

Raoul smiles, shaking her head. “Not when Juliette’s here. She’ll have my head. Then she’ll reattach it and make me use the inhaler.”

“That,” Francois adds with a fond smile. “Is true.”

The laughter of children echoes from downstairs, and there’s the sound of Eloise saying _that’s not for you, dear._

“Eloise brought you something, Christine,” Alexandre says with a rare smile. “Some Swedish sweets she found. I won’t embarrass myself and try to pronounce the name. You’d best claim them before my children do.”

“Oh, how lovely.” A little more color returns to Christine’s cheeks, and she’s visibly delighted. “That’s very sweet, though you’ll likely catch me sharing with the children, anyway, I won’t lie about that.”

They go downstairs to find Hallongrotta cookies, which Eloise stumbled across in a bakery. The four children—including 15-year-old Estelle, who usually eats with the adults now, go off with Madeline. Raoul doesn’t ask why. She doesn’t want to ask why. The dinner proceeds as normal.

At least, until they’re almost through dessert.

“I think,” Philippe begins. “That we need to speak about what’s going on at the opera house.”

Raoul pauses with her fork of chocolate cake halfway to her mouth. “Do we? There’s not much to tell.”

Philippe stops eating, and he has that _look_ in his eyes, the one he gets when he’s made up his mind. “There will be, if that fiend has anything to say about it.”

“Philippe,” Raoul presses, her hand tightening around her fork. “We don’t know it’s him.”

Philippe raises his eyebrows. “You were quite convinced it was.”

Raoul glances across the table at Christine. “I feel it very well could be. But…well there are some things that mean it could be someone trying to copy him. It’s hard to know, with just the one instance so far.”

“Why would someone want to copy him?” Eloise asks. “I genuinely am asking, it seems odd.”

“We shouldn’t have let the police let the case go,” Alexandre sniffs, taking another sip of his wine. “We don’t need madmen running through Paris, or threatening this family, besides. The gossip is just now dying down.”

“Alexandre…” Eloise says quietly.

“The police let it go on their own by not taking it seriously enough,” Francois says, taking Juliette’s hand atop the table. “I’m not sure we ought to blame ourselves for that.”

“We could have pushed them,” Alexandre argues, shooting Philippe a look despite Eloise’s quiet protest. “I told Philippe he ought to, given so many people were speculating wild things, like either of you being involved. Nonsense.”

Raoul slides her foot toward Christine’s beneath the table, the toes of their shoes meeting. “Philippe didn’t push because Christine and I asked him not to. The police treated us horribly, and we didn’t want to deal with any more gossip, let alone the trial. I can’t imagine how terrible that might have been.” She doesn’t mention that Christine would have rather not seen Erik dead, that even she had complicated feelings on that, and they just wanted to leave this behind if Erik was willing to leave them—and others—alone.

“We think you ought to call a halt to rehearsal,” Philippe says without ceremony. “Until this gets straightened out.”

Raoul’s breath catches. “What do you mean, _we_?”

“I mean…” Philippe gestures across the table. “Your siblings. The people who care about you and about Christine.”

“We only thought of it as a maybe,” Eloise cuts in. “We wanted at least discuss it.”

Raoul looks at Juliette, a little softer. “Do you agree with this?”

Juliette puts up a hand. “I thought we ought to speak with you first.” She shoots a reprimanding glance at Philippe. “We were not making unilateral decisions. But yes, we did speak about it without you present.”

Raoul’s eyes dart back over to Philippe. “So when you say _we_ , you mean _you_.”

Philippe puts the wine glass he just picked up down again. “Raoul…”

Raoul’s fork clatters to her plate. “You can’t be serious, Philippe. We…Christine and I, Andre, Meg, Carlotta, Piangi, Monsieur Reyer, every single person at the opera has worked day and night to get it back on its feet. To earn Paris’ trust back. I had to tell some of the seamstresses to take a few days because their fingers were bleeding from staying too late sewing costumes. And we’ve almost won. We’re thriving. We can’t stop now. Not after one note. The _moment_ something else happens I’ll be the first person to pull back. I don’t want to put anyone in danger.”

“It is not in your nature to pull back from anything,” Philippe argues, his voice rising. “This started with a note at our door. And then several months later _you_ were at the door half dead, Raoul!”

Christine visibly flinches in her seat next to Philippe, who looks at her in apology.

“I’m sorry, Christine,” he says, more softly. “I don’t mean to upset you or think we blame you, we don’t.”

“You do blame me, though?” Raoul shoots back, even though half of her doesn’t want to. One, because she doesn’t want to upset Christine, who doesn’t like shouting. Two, because she barely ever fights with her brother. That’s usually reserved for Eloise, and now that they’re getting along, she hasn’t argued with any sibling for quite some time. “You were the one encouraging me days ago to keep going, and now you want me to what, stop?”

“That was before the note,” Philippe replies, his voice going low in irritation. “Do you know what people will say if this explodes into something more?”

“They’ll also say something if we just stop now!” Raoul shouts. “I don’t…” she feels her hand start shaking. Dammit, not right now. Not right _now_. “I’m not opposed to help from any of you, but I don’t need you to treat me like a child. I can handle this. Christine and I can handle it.”

Philippe stares her down, a glint of regret in his eyes, but he’s too in it to say that now. “Then why can’t you sleep? You were down here again before me this morning, and you are not known for being an early bird.”

“Philippe,” Juliette chides, apparently catching sight of Raoul’s trembling hand.

“It is my responsibility as your brother to protect you,” Philippe amends, changing his tone slightly. “I will not let this slide into chaos like last time.”

Tears prick Raoul’s eyes, and she doesn’t want to cry, she doesn’t want to be the little girl her family—Christine excepted—clearly still think she is, despite everything she’s accomplished the past year.

“With all due respect to you, Philippe,” Christine interjects quietly, a sharp sparkle of frustration in her eyes. “And I mean that sincerely, I think what’s being forgotten here is that whatever happened, Raoul held her own for as long as she could against a man twice her age who used to be an assassin. More than once. We both did our best.”

“I know,” Philippe says, and he looks like he might regret shouting a moment ago, but Raoul’s too angry, she’s too overcome to stop herself before she hears the _but_.

“I didn’t let anything slide into chaos,” Raoul says, gritting her teeth. “Or am I meant to predict the actions of a madman now? It’s my fault he dropped a chandelier and broke your arm and strung me up, is it? It’s Christine’s fault that he tormented her? You’re a man so you’re more rational? You can _handle_ it?”

“Raoul, that’s not what…” Philippe tries.

Raoul pushes her chair back from the table, shaking her head at Francois, who tries gently to stop her. She presses a kiss to Christine’s cheek with a whispered _thank you_ before stalking out toward the main sitting room, all but throwing herself onto the settee and staring at the fire, a wave of nausea creeping up her throat as her breaths grow shallow. She’s not alone for long, and she knows it’s Juliette before she even looks up. Her sister sits down next to her, taking one of Raoul’s trembling hands in her own. Raoul lets her, because she can’t really say no to Juliette.

“Is this why Estelle didn’t eat with us?” Raoul asks. “So that Philippe could lecture me?”

“Raoul,” Juliette says softly. “He’s very worried. I’m very worried.”

“I know,” Raoul whispers, and she’s so angry that just a few days ago, everything was perfect. It was perfect, and she wants it back. “But I’m not a child, Juliette. I’m not even…I’m more aware than I was when everything at the opera house happened.” She looks up, feeling some of her nausea ease as her sister keeps her hand. “The way he was talking it was like…it was like he thought I didn’t take what happened seriously enough. And maybe I didn’t take the ghost as seriously as I ought to have, at first, but no one did. No one but Christine. I certainly was, by the end.”

“He doesn’t blame you. And he should have handled it less bluntly,” Juliette admits. “But Raoul he…what happened to you stays with him. The idea of anything happening to you or Christine terrifies him. He has nightmares. He gets an upset stomach over it, sometimes. Dr. Aubert’s given him something for it. In truth it’s not you he blames—it’s himself.”

Raoul meets Juliette’s eyes. “Why…why didn’t he tell me that?”

Juliette gives her a sad smile. “Because he’s a proud man who wants to protect his baby sister.”

Someone clears their throat behind them, and Philippe’s there, grasping Christine’s hand.

“Pride is indeed one of my flaws, Juliette,” he says wryly. “I think I ought to speak to Raoul, a moment.”

Juliette squeezes Raoul’s hand, saying something about bringing her the tea with the Valerian root in it. She gets a kiss on the cheek from Philippe before walking with Christine back into the dining room.

Philippe stands awkwardly by, even if awkward is not usually a word Raoul would use for her social, charming brother. “May I sit?”

“Yes, of course.” Raoul gestures at the space next to her. “You don’t have to ask.”

Philippe eases himself down onto the settee, pausing when he sees Raoul shaking. He meets Raoul’s eyes, then puts his hand gently on her back.

“I’m sorry.” He runs it up and down, and though part of Raoul relaxes, part of her doesn’t. “I didn’t want to upset you.”

“I’m not made of china,” Raoul says. “I know…” she struggles with this. “I know my nerves get to me, sometimes. But that doesn’t mean I can’t handle things. I don’t want you to treat me differently than you used to. I need your support, I just…I’m not a little girl, Philippe.”

“You’ve done a wonderful job at the opera,” Philippe continues. “But this…I grant it is just the one note, and perhaps I jumped too quickly and shouldn’t have met with Eloise and Juliette without you. I just…I can’t see you and Christine pulled back into that. Not like before. When you…” Philippe stops here, steadying himself, and Raoul sees the tears in his eyes. “When I saw you in Francois’ arms that night, covered in blood and barely breathing I…I thought _I didn’t do enough to save her_. And I’ve never forgiven myself for it. I can’t let this slip through my fingers.”

Raoul takes Philippe’s much larger hand in hers, a watery smile sliding across her brother’s face.

“I’m all right, Philippe. I’m all right.”

Philippe enfolds her hand in both of his own. “You are one hell of a brave woman, but that doesn’t mean what happened didn’t leave marks. And I…well I think you need to not feel so ashamed of that.”

Raoul frowns, a little. “You didn’t tell me about yours, though. Juliette did.”

Philippe shakes his head fondly, muttering something under his breath. “I didn’t want to worry you. I’ll be all right. Make a compromise with me?”

“What’s that?”

“Let me accompany you to the next few rehearsals. I want to be there should anything else happen. I couldn’t be, that night of Don Juan. I’d like to be now.”

Raoul can’t say no. How could she? She doesn’t want to make him worry, she doesn’t want to burden him unduly anymore than all of this already has, even if a twinge of annoyance at being overly mothered twists in her chest.

She nods. “I’m sorry I reacted so strongly I just…I don’t want you to think I’m not capable of things. And I don’t want…” she sucks in a breath through her teeth. “I don’t want that man to define my life, or how I act.”

“I know. And I’m sorry I treated you like a child,” Philippe replies, squeezing her hand tight between his own. “I can be paternalistic sometimes, I’m afraid. And I didn’t mean to upset Christine, I apologized to her as soon as you walked out.” He smirks a touch. “I do think _now_ you could smoke that cigar with me without Juliette being too angry at us. It will scandalize Alexandre, which will surely make me laugh.”

Raoul rolls her eyes, pressing a kiss to Philippe’s cheek. “A truce,” she says. “But you’ll have to face Christine’s wrath when she can’t kiss me for the rest of the evening because I smell like smoke.”

Philippe laughs uproariously, and for just a moment, the anxiety in the pit of Raoul’s stomach finally dissipates. 

* * *

“You mean the letter _he_ sent you? A few weeks after Don Juan?” Meg asks, spinning around from Christine’s dressing room mirror as she finishes tying up her pointe shoes. There’s a hushed quality to her voice, like she’s afraid she might summon Erik—or some other, real, specter, if she doesn’t show some fear. “No, I didn’t tell her he sent it. I thought you told her.”

Christine shakes her head, a sense of foreboding rushing through her. “No, I assumed you told her, because I didn’t specifically say not to. We were about to leave for Brittany then and I wanted to believe that, and…”

“We didn’t want to pry into your relationship with your mother,” Raoul adds from the chair next to Christine’s, dressed in the trousers she sometimes wears when they’re just going to rehearsal at the opera, and nowhere else.

Christine thinks she looks fetching in them, though of course, women wearing them aside from very specific sporting occasions is still a scandalous thing. Raoul has one foot pulled up and resting on the edge of the chair, the other tapping against the carpet.

Meg shrugs. “You could have, I don’t have any secrets from the two of you or…at all, really. I’m not a mysterious person, I suppose.” She looks at Christine, her eyes wide. “Do you…do you think she’s talking to _him_? Or was, at least? Even if it isn’t related to the note you got?”

“I don’t want to accuse your mother of anything without proof,” Christine says. “But it is…”

“Fairly damning,” Raoul finishes for her, grimacing. “But then, she helped me down to the lair, too, and she didn’t have to.” She meets Meg’s eyes. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to speculate about your mother like this.”

Meg huffs. “If speculation will lead me to know where she keeps sneaking off to and help us all figure out who sent that note, it doesn’t bother me. I don’t want all of that starting back up again. For any of us, but especially for the two of you. I don’t…” she takes a deep breath. “I don’t think my mother would mean either of you harm, but then, I…well. Well perhaps it’s just a coincidence that these notes started appearing as soon as I noticed she was acting strangely. Maybe she was acting strange before and I was too silly to notice. I mean…she _did_ act strangely after Don Juan, but we all did. I only…I don’t think she would do something like this. Extort money, whatever secrets she may be keeping.”

“You’re not silly,” Christine says in absentminded reassurance. “And that’s true. It seems unlike her.”

_Could_ Madame Giry be writing the notes? Could she be delivering them from Erik? But that’s supposing so many things. It’s supposing malice on her part. It’s supposing that Erik isn’t willing to do his own dirty work, which was never the case before. Christine shakes her head. She doesn’t know who is sending these notes, she only knows part of her is screaming that it isn’t Erik, even if another part whispers that it must be. But that _look_ in his eyes, the night he let them go…she can’t forget it. That regret. That guilt. It could be undone, of course, it just seemed so real, to her, no matter how angry she was. She saw the teacher she thought she knew, in that moment.

She studies Raoul, thinking she looks rather paler than usual, the old sleep problems plaguing her again. She slept a touch better last night, tucked into Christine’s arms after a nightmare. Raoul catches her looking, tilting her head in question with a sad little smile. Christine puts a kiss on her own fingers, pressing them playfully against Raoul’s forehead.

Raoul is still quite convinced the note was from Erik, though she’s admitted she could be wrong, willing to listen to Christine’s theories. Part of Christine feels as if she might be somehow less afraid if it _is_ Erik. At least it’s the devil she knows, even if the idea of him tossing away his change of heart and returning to the man he was scares her senseless. Still, she’s different than she was, when all of that happened. Sturdier. Though, another part of her feels heavy down to the pit of her stomach thinking about how utterly helpless she felt that night in the lair, watching Raoul choke, with only the power of her persuasion. Her choice.

She didn’t know how much strength those things held until after it was over.

If it’s someone else, someone new—whatever their motive may be—she doesn’t know _who_ and she doesn’t know _why_ and….well both scenarios have frightening aspects.

“Is Philippe here again to watch?” Meg asks.

Raoul nods. “He made me promise to let him come to the next few rehearsals, should anything else happen. It was the compromise to put him off postponing rehearsals, which I don’t want to do unless we have to—though I don’t want to put everyone in any danger, of course. Everyone’s worked so hard and…well. It’s been a week since we got the note, and we haven’t left the money. I’m wondering if that will tell us something. Hopefully it won’t be anything too…” She swallows, half-caught in a memory that Christine sees in her eyes. “Dramatic.”

Meg catches Christine’s gaze, going over to Raoul and pressing her shoulder. “I think you should be able to frighten away whatever scoundrel is up to this with a good swift kick, from all that savate.”

Raoul smiles brighter then, clasping Meg’s hand. “I surely hope so. Jules says I’m getting quite good.”

They head down the hallway after that, going past the old dressing room where Erik took her through the mirror. The room where she met Raoul again. It’s been locked since their return, but Christine pauses in front of it now, for reasons she’s not sure she could utter aloud, like maybe part of her thinks she’ll hear a voice.

She hears nothing, of course. The room is silent as it’s been for the past year.

She’s been at least fairly sure the note wasn’t from Erik, but then…why the mention of this specific room? Could it be someone else in the opera who simply thought it a good location to leave extorted money?

Every time she thinks she has it sorted, some other piece appears in her mind. Some other _maybe_.

Meg gets pulled away by some of the ballet girls, and Christine feels a hand on her arm. She jumps, realizing as soon as she does that it’s Raoul’s hand.

“Are you all right?” Raoul asks, concern gleaming in those familiar blue eyes.

“Yes.” Christine pulls Raoul’s hand closer, pressing a quick kiss to it. “It’s just…this room. And I…” She looks closer, realizing something she hadn’t before.

The door is just, ever so slightly, open.

“Wait,” she says. “This…” she pushes the door, and as it swings away from her, she does hear voices, but they’re only echoes of the past.

_Christine Daae, where is your red scarf?_

_Insolent girl!_

“That’s supposed to be locked.” Raoul states what they’re both thinking. “I…” she spins toward two stagehands coming down the hall. “Jacques, Paul, this door is meant to be locked, could one of you see to it that it is? We’ll have to sort out why it was unlocked later, the keys should be in the office.”

They both agree, and there’s not time for more thought on the matter as they go to begin rehearsal, Christine to the stage and Raoul to sit with Andre and Philippe in the theater before she’s needed in the orchestra pit. Little Simone waves at Christine as she darts in with a message for Andre before shyly asking if she might sit next to Raoul, who agrees with a grin. They found out recently that Simone does, indeed, have a parent—they’d wondered if she was only pretending to avoid questions—and that she works as a maid, but upon learning it was only the two of them, Raoul slipped a few more sous than usual into Simone’s hand. Philippe arches a curious eyebrow before apparently introducing himself to Simone, though Christine can’t quite make out what he’s saying. The elder de Chagny catches Christine looking, and blows her a kiss as Raoul engages Simone in conversation.

Christine returns the gesture, but from the looks on their faces, it does not appear as if Raoul has told Philippe about the unlocked door.

The unlocked door that could mean nothing.

Or something.

_I don’t want his health suffering while he worries about me_ , Raoul confessed to Christine last night. _But it’s impossible to keep everything from him_. _And I’d feel strange about doing it, too._

Christine understands the safety of a secret. The feeling of protecting someone from something. She’s not sure Raoul _should_ keep any secrets from Philippe, but also understands why she might. There isn’t anything to keep, at the moment, but she sees Raoul barreling toward it, anyway, and she’s not sure if she ought to say stop, when she, too, is worried about Philippe. Worried for him, and what he might say they ought to do about the opera house.

Rehearsal begins—a review of act 3—and Christine is just a few lines into the _Jewel Song_ when there’s a noise.

_Ah, I laugh to see myself_

_so beautiful in this mirror,_

_Ah, I laugh to see myself_

_so beautiful in this mirror_

There’s a creak somewhere nearby, a loud one, and Christine abruptly stops, the orchestra’s music going dissonant with an ear wrenching squeak. Raoul jumps up immediately, rushing up to the foot of the stage.

There’s a pause.

Another pause.

_Another_ pause and Christine wonders if she imagined it, but she couldn’t have, no, not when everyone else stopped too.

She jumps as a second creak echoes, and some of the half-finished set piece in the corner of the stage groans like the wood is about to fall. Christine spins around just as Raoul hefts herself up onto the stage and everyone backs up, stagehands shouting and rushing across the fly loft above them. The wood groans a second time before the not yet complete backdrop crashes down with magnificent chaos, still wet paint splattering the stage.

Monsieur Reyer gasps.

Andre says something like _oh my god_.

The ballet girls screech.

The stagehands shout apologies.

Raoul takes Christine’s hand.

Christine stares at the ruined scenery and Raoul does too, but before anyone can say anything there’s another screech and Philippe shouting _Raoul_ in a choked, urgent voice.

Little Simone screams.

Christine looks up in tandem with Raoul, and there, falling down from above on the opposite side of the stage from the backdrop, is a noose, a porcelain doll caught up in it’s grasp. It comes to an abrupt halt, and all Christine can think about is the night Joseph Buquet died, and the sickening sound of the rope going taut.

Except…Christine peers closer, studying the strange doll and realizing…

Realizing it looks something like Raoul. Sandy hair. Blue eyes. The clothes it came in changed to bear some resemblance to Raoul’s.

The message is clear.

Christine slips an arm around Raoul’s waist, trying to tug her as far away from the doll and the noose as possible. Raoul just keeps staring at the noose and the doll with wide eyes, her face turning ashen as her breath quickens.

It takes everything in Christine not to retch.

A note falls too, hitting the stage with a smack like the one in the grand hall did, and something about it strikes Christine. Something about the memory of how Erik’s notes fluttered slowly down as if he’d enchanted them to do so. She glances around the stage, looking for anyone she could suspect, but Madame Giry is standing there looking as shocked as everyone else, and the stagehands are bickering above them. There’s no voice. No laughter that indicates Erik, but nothing here that says not Erik, either.

Raoul’s shaking. Christine feels herself shaking too, but Raoul is doing so visibly, closing her eyes like she’s willing herself to stop while everyone is looking. Meg dashes forward, snatching up the note just as Philippe comes on stage, his hand going to Raoul’s shoulder.

No one moves. No one speaks. At a nod from Christine Meg opens the envelope, undoing the red wax seal. She reads it aloud, her voice a trembling echo in the quiet as rose petals float to the stage.

_Mademoiselle de Chagny and Monsieur Andre,_

_You did not do as I asked with the 20,000 francs. Let this serve as a warning for what should happen if another week passes and you disobey my command. I’m afraid you’ll be handling more than just some broken scenery, in that case._

_And we wouldn’t want to ruin the premiere of Faust next month, now would we?_

_Christine, my angel--_

Meg stops off here, her breath audibly catching before she continues.

_Christine, my angel—I suggest you convince your lover of the seriousness of the matter._

_But then, she always was a fool, wasn’t she?_

_Your obedient servant,_

_O.G._

* * *

Raoul won’t—can’t—let go of either Christine, or the letter. One arm is around Christine’s waist as they sit on the settee at home, the letter clasped in her other hand. The letter with that damn blood red ink.

“Raoul,” Philippe says. “You either have to let go of Christine or the letter to take this tea.”

Raoul looks up at her brother, sharp words coming up before she can stop them.

“I’m tired of tea, Philippe.”

She drank so much tea in the weeks after the lair that drinking it now makes her feel unsettled, even though Dr. Aubert has encouraged her to drink it with things like valerian root or hypericum when she feels nervous or can’t sleep.

“I know.” Philippe’s more patient that she deserves. “But your hand is still shaking, my dear, just have a little bit, all right?”

Raoul relents, choosing to release the letter rather than Christine, and taking the tea from her brother, pressing his fingers lightly as he puts the cup into her hand.

“I have to bring my thoughts to the meeting tomorrow,” Raoul says, taking a sip of the tea. “And if we put off rehearsal for two weeks to see if we can sort this out, then we’ll have to push the premiere off for two weeks.” She looks at Christine, who’s lost the usual blush in her cheeks. “How do we explain that? Repairs?”

“Or that I lost my voice due to an illness and can’t rehearse,” Christine suggests. “That might make people less suspicious. Especially if we say that a head cold is running through the sopranos at the opera, so they don’t question why someone couldn’t stand in my place for a time.”

Raoul smiles for the first time in hours. “That’s a good idea. I don’t love the idea of lying, but I don’t see a way out of it. God knows what they’ll say if we tell the truth.” She grimaces, her stomach sinking. “I hate this. I hate that we need to postpone, but we do, don’t we?”

“I think so.” A tiny crack runs through Christine’s voice as she sits flush against Raoul’s side, content, apparently, to remain there. “That was a threat. Against everyone in the opera.” She hesitates, meeting Raoul’s eyes. “Against you, especially. I know we both wanted to avoid this, but that…it was quite a bit more than just a note.”

Raoul hears the fear in Christine’s voice, and knows, with her whole heart, that she must act carefully here, both for the safety of everyone at the opera—whatever other gossip may come, she will not have people’s blood or injury on her hands if she can stop it—and for her own. She can’t forget the pain in Christine’s voice, after the lair. The fear of losing her embedded deep in her bones. Raoul can’t make guarantees, but she can at least try and put a lid on her impulsiveness to lessen any chances. Not entirely, because life isn’t like that, but with this…

Well with this, for her own sake as well as Christine’s and everyone in the opera, she must tread carefully.

She at least has to try.

But she doesn’t want to give into fear, either. Not when they’ve worked so hard for the opera.

They have to get to the bottom of this.

Raoul nods. “We have to sort this out. I won’t have a performance until we know what’s happening, we can’t put people in danger like we did before, even if we didn’t entirely realize…” she looks at Christine again, her chest twinging a little still, at the thought of Don Juan. There didn’t seem another choice, then, but she can’t imagine doing something like that a second time.

Christine tucks a stray curl behind her ear. “That wasn’t your fault, Raoul.”

“I know,” Raoul whispers, drinking another sip of her tea when she sees Philippe peering at her.

Philippe finally sits down across from them, pouring a glass of wine for himself and Christine, and Raoul finds herself longing for one, though she supposes she has to finish the blasted tea, first.

She feels like crying again, and all things considered she’d rather cry as she usually does at a particularly beautiful opera or piece of poetry, and _not_ at this.

“I still find it odd,” Christine adds, taking the wine from Philippe. “That this person claims to be Erik but I haven’t…” she hesitates here, like she doesn’t want to be embarrassed in front of Philippe. “I haven’t heard any voice. Music hasn’t been a part of this for a moment just this…strange emphasis on money. No critique of the opera other than to swipe at you for your violin playing.” Christine scowls, furrowing her brows in anger, and that does make Raoul feel a touch lighter. “No commentary on casting. And I almost…well it seems that whoever this is might be more interested in you, Raoul.” She pauses, tilting her head. “But then…well I don’t know. Not to say that Erik _wasn’t_ obsessed with you, but I just. Something feels off. Even with the addition of the angel to that note, I felt again like an afterthought.”

Raoul taps her chin, something coiling deep in her gut. Christine has a point, with all of that, but she just feels like it _must_ be Erik, because who else could it be? Someone copying him, perhaps only…well she doesn’t know if it’s her nerves or rationality speaking, but she knows they can’t count the old opera ghost out.

“It is different, from before,” Raoul admits. “In the subtleties. And you certainly knew him better. But I still….we can’t count him out.”

Christine shakes her head. “No. And we shouldn’t.”

“I just keep asking myself who else it _could_ be,” Raoul continues. “That’s what keeps giving me pause. I can’t think of anyone else who would have it out for either of us like this. And enough time has passed that Erik has either actually changed, or he’s had enough time to revert. Maybe even the success of the opera could make him do so?”

Raoul finishes off her tea, and Philippe finally pours her a glass of wine, too. He drinks more of his own, thinking.

“And you said that Meg said her mother was acting strange?” he asks. “I can’t help but wonder if one has something to do with the other.”

“I would too,” Raoul says. “But then Madame was there today and…”

There’s an abrupt, sudden knock on the door. A hard knock. Raoul and Christine jump, and Philippe calls out to his valet Lucien, who rushes to answer. There’s urgent words Raoul can’t quite make out and then Lucien lets whoever it is inside, and Laurent, one of the newer tenors, as well as Meg’s suitor, steps inside the sitting room.

“Laurent?” Raoul asks, getting up from the settee in tandem with Christine. “What’s the matter? Did something happen to Meg?”

Laurent takes his hat off his head, nearly crushing it in his hands.

“That’s just it,” he says, a gleam of worry in his eyes. “She was supposed to meet me an hour ago, except, well…” he looks at Christine, almost in apology. “…she never showed up.”


	3. That Mysterious Man of Whom Nothing Was Known

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another threatening note. A missing prima ballerina. As Raoul and Christine begin to suspect Madame Giry and Erik are behind this new chaos, their world shifts again. 
> 
> Enter The Persian.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay! A few historical notes here. 
> 
> I have given The Persian the name Mohammed Ismaël Khan here. I had debated using the name Nadir Khan from the Kay novel, but as I don't like the Kay novel (and her depictions of Persia are...less than great) and a very helpful anon on Tumblr let me know that this was the name of the man on whom Leroux based Daroga, that's the one I'm opting to use. 
> 
> Le Hanneton, which you will see mentioned, was a cafe/bar in 19th century Montmartre where queer women went to meet each other! They were places largely owned by women (especially lesbians). 
> 
> A feuilleton was a section in French newspapers dedicated to discussing art, literature, and theater.

Meg doesn’t appear for their meeting at the opera the next morning, either.

And even stranger, neither does her mother.

Raoul, Christine, Andre, Carlotta, Piangi, Madame Brodeur the head seamstress, and Paul the chief stagehand are all in the managers’ office, a soft buzz of nervous conversation permeating the room. Laurent is there, too, wringing his hands and pacing.

Raoul can’t think of a good explanation for this. She doesn’t want to panic, she doesn’t want to assume, but this is _odd_.

Meg’s only been missing for fourteen hours or so, but it’s too long, in Raoul’s estimation. The entire company and crew are meant to arrive in a half hour to hear the announcement about the postponement of rehearsal, and perhaps Meg and Madame are late? Perhaps they got the time wrong? But no. No, they started the meeting over an hour ago.

And Madame Giry is _never_ late.

There was another note in the office this morning, slipped under the door like some innocent missive.

This time, it was addressed only to Raoul.

_Mademoiselle de Chagny,_

_The longer you wait to deliver my salary, the more danger you will find yourselves in._

_I had hoped my little surprise yesterday would have made that clear. If I cannot appeal to Andre, who has already proven he will not obey me, perhaps I can appeal to you, who certainly learned the most difficult lesson about what happens when I am challenged._

_I’m sure you don’t want to endanger the premeire of Faust. You wouldn’t want to deny Christine her chance on the stage._

_You wouldn’t want the rumors to start again. People whisper behind your back as is, do they not? About you and Christine and your…proclivities._

_You still haven’t fired Bernard, I see. As you are not a suitable replacement for the second chair violin, perhaps that should be your first concern._

_Your obedient servant,_

_O.G._

Raoul nearly ripped the note up in anger, but instead briefly showed it to the others before slipping it into her pocket. There was no fanfare, with this one, other than a few stray rose petals falling out, crumpled and half-rotted.

A subtle threat. But a threat, nonetheless.

“Laurent.” Raoul walks up to the tenor, who is perhaps a year younger than herself and learning swiftly under Piangi’s tutelage. “How about you go to the nearest police station and…” she hesitates here, given how utterly _useless_ the police were to her previously, but perhaps they’ll listen to a young man more thoroughly. “…and see if for some strange reason anyone matching Meg or her mother’s description might have been arrested.”

Laurent nods, his pale fair hair falling into his eyes. “I imagine you do not want me to report the strange happenings here?”

Raoul smiles, pressing his hand. “Correct. We’re going to give the press the story about Christine’s illness, the head cold going through our singers, for now. I just want to make sure nothing strange happened. We’ll find Meg, never you fear.”

Laurent agrees, pressing Raoul’s hand back before he’s off. Everyone here has grown close in their endeavors to bring the opera back to life, and they’ve built trust with one another. Raoul doesn’t really need to demand people keep the new notes quiet, and she wouldn’t like to, anyway. A warm feeling mixes strangely with the anxiety in her chest, because these people, this place, have become a home.

Christine’s sitting in Raoul’s usual chair, her head resting in her hands, and as soon as Laurent is off, Raoul goes over to her. Carlotta’s hand is on Christine’s back, genuine concern in her eyes.

“Meg Giry is a strong, stubborn girl,” Carlotta’s saying, her red hair bouncing as she gestures. “She’ll be all right Christine. You’ll see.”

Carlotta puts a kiss on Raoul’s cheek before leaving them alone. Raoul sits on the arm of the chair, taking Christine’s hand and drawing her gaze. Christine’s eyes are wide. Afraid. Cloudy with worry, and Raoul hasn’t seen her look like this since….

Well, not since Don Juan.

“We’ll find them,” Raoul assures her. “I promise you we’ll find them.”

Raoul’s been on the verge of panic for days, but Christine needing her makes it simmer rather than rage. When the notes started coming, she could only react. At least with this terrible new development, she can do something, and it keeps the nerves at bay.

Christine stares Raoul in the eye, her words coming out in a frightened whisper.

“What if he took her?”

Raoul doesn’t need to ask who _he_ is.

It’s the first time Christine’s sounded as if she well and truly thinks this might be Erik. She’s not counted the idea out at all, but Raoul hears that old fear in Christine’s voice. That fear of her teacher that still remains, no matter how far they’ve both come.

A change of heart is not a promise. Regret is not a guarantee.

Christine grasps Raoul’s right hand tighter, one finger running back and forth over the wedding ring. “Meg was wondering if Madame helped him. And what if…what if she did?”

Raoul’s own heart beats faster. “Even if she did, whatever Madame Giry’s faults I don’t know that she would harm her own daughter.”

“She harmed me,” Christine says sharply, though Raoul knows the sharpness isn’t meant for her. “By encouraging Erik’s lessons she harmed me.”

It is always a strange thing, this topic. The lessons that made Christine soar, even as they were wrapped up in lies, Even as they lead to events that almost destroyed them both. Erik certainly did nurture Christine’s naturally beautiful voice, but whatever his considerable talents, Raoul is not sure she would call the old opera ghost a genius. For genius to truly be such, she thinks there ought to be some kindness in it, too, and his only showed itself when everything was pushed to the brink. If it can even be _called_ kindness when you just decide you won’t murder someone or make a kidnapping permanent. It is a redemption of sorts. It is not, however, an atonement.

“I know.” Raoul runs her hand up and down Christine’s arm, earning a tiny smile. “But I haven’t seen proof that she would physically hurt Meg, or allow Erik to, if they are indeed, in contact. We should go to their flat, and see if they’re ill, or there at all, and if not, we’ll need to think on other places to search. All right?”

Christine nods, sitting up straight and visibly steeling herself. Raoul asks Andre to deliver the news to the company about the two-week delay, and then she’s off with Christine, though as soon as they come into the grand hall, Simone is there, rushing up to them.

“Hello,” Christine says, shaken out of her worry by the look on Simone’s face. “Are you all right, dear?”

“Hello, Miss Christine,” Simone says in a rush. “I…” she looks at Raoul, twisting her fingers like she’s debating something. “Well I thought you ought to know there’s a man outside who says he’s from one of the newspapers.”

“Dammit,” Raoul mutters, not entirely under her breath. “Thank you, Simone.” She offers the young girl a smile, despite her worry. “Christine and I have to be somewhere urgently, but if you go into the office Monsieur Andre will tell you what’s going on.”

Christine pulls some of the cookies Eloise brought her out of her bag, slipping a few into Simone’s hands before she goes.

“There’s some more in the office,” Christine tells her. “Take some home to your mother?”

Simone nods, a little frown on her face before the smile comes back when Carlotta comes sweeping out of the office, calling out her name.

Raoul storms through the doors with Christine at her heels after that, finding said newspaper man waiting on the stairs.

“Mademoiselle de Chagny!” he exclaims, eyeing her trousers. “You’re just the person I was looking for. I have it on good word that there have been some things afoot here recently. Care to confirm?”

Raoul puts one hand on her hip, swiftly losing her patience but knowing she musn’t. She smooths her facial expression like Juliette taught her, and keeps her voice even. She’s a de Chagny, after all. She’s spent enough time in high society to tell a lie.

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean, monsieur,” she says, as imperiously as possible. “On whose good word?”

He ignores that, sauntering closer. “It seems you’re having some kind of meeting this morning.”

“It is an opera house, monsieur. That tends to happen. Which I assume you know, given I believe you write the feuilleton on opera for _Journal des Debats_ , if I’m recognizing you correctly?” Raoul keeps her words easy. “The only thing afoot in this opera house is Mademoiselle Daae’s recent affliction of the throat, and some sort of head cold ripping it’s way through our soprano section, and some of tenors, too. We unfortunately have to delay rehearsals.” She narrows her eyes. “You do not treat other institutions this way, I should like to note. Just this one.”

The writer turns toward Christine, instead, a slight scowl on his face. “Would the prima donna care to comment?”

Raoul wants to say _enough_ , right then, but Christine can keep up with this man, she knows that for sure.

Christine clears her throat, taking a handkerchief out of her pocket and wiping her nose. “I am on my way to see the doctor now, monsieur.” She affects a hoarser voice than she has, and Raoul’s impressed, but Christine is a talented actress, not just a singer. “And you are rather preventing me from getting there.”

He arches an eyebrow. “And Mademoiselle de Chagny needs to accompany you?”

“She is a good and willing friend,” Christine answers, before turning on her heel away from the writer, who seems to take that as his cue to leave.

“You are very good,” Raoul whispers in her ear.

“He was preventing me from seeing about Meg.” Christine casts an irritated glance back at the retreating writer. “It wouldn’t do.”

Raoul and Christine give Marcel the address—and the circumstance—but before they can ascend into the carriage, someone calls out to them in a quiet but still altogether urgent tone.

Raoul doesn’t recognize the voice, but she turns around in tandem with Christine, seeing an unfamiliar man with tawny brown skin standing in front of them. He’s dressed like any other French gentleman aside from the astrakhan cap he’s wearing—he must be from Persia, or somewhere in that region, in Raoul’s limited knowledge. His eyes are green and friendly, but Raoul’s certain she’s never seen him before in her life.

Wait.

Persia. The ghost said his friend was someone he knew in Persia but…

“Mademoiselle de Chagny, Mademoiselle Daae,” he begins, and Raoul supposes it’s not at all impossible that he would know their names, not after they were all over the papers, but it still throws her. “I’m sorry to bother you, but we must speak urgently. I’m a friend of Erik’s.”

Raoul jolts and so does Christine, their hands sliding together immediately.

“I’m sorry,” the man repeats, laughing at himself. “That was a terrible way to begin. My name is Mohammed Ismaël-Khan— just Ismaël, if you like—and I’m here to help you.” 

* * *

They speak inside the carriage.

They can’t go home, because Philippe might return early from his day with his friend Felix, and Raoul doesn’t want him knowing she was speaking with someone who claimed to be a friend of the opera ghost. He would worry. He would say _no_ , and they have to get to the bottom of this, for Meg. She’s not even sure Erik _has_ Meg, or if the notes and Meg’s disappearance are related, but surely they must be?

She hates keeping things from Philippe or Juliette, but she may _have_ to keep this to herself, for a while. She’ll tell them about the new note, but this….this will have to wait.

The man called Ismaël has the most recent note in his hand, reading it over intently in the quiet before looking up at them.

“I assure you,” he says with great solemnity. “These notes are not coming from Erik. I grant the flair of the red ink and the signature and the threats could make you think so, but money would not be his main objective. Whoever this is doesn’t do a bad copying job, I’ll grant them that.”

Christine’s hand slips into Raoul’s, their fingers tightly intertwined. It’s bold, in front of a stranger, but Raoul can’t be bothered to care, because the press of Christine’s skin against her own makes her heart race a little less.

“Pardon me monsieur but….” Raoul takes a deep breath. “We’re going to need an explanation as to why you think so.”

Ismaël folds up the letter, handing it back to Raoul. “Because,” he says, eyeing them with unease. “Erik is living with me in a flat on the rue de Rivoli. And he has been for over a year.”

Christine gasps. Raoul holds her hand tighter but there’s nowhere to go and…

She searches for a weapon. She thinks of how well she can kick inside this carriage.

The ghost is….oh god. The ghost is still _here_. He’s here in this city. He’s…

And she came into this carriage with a man who said he was his friend what was she _thinking_?

Raoul fears she might retch.

“I did not offer to help so that I could hurt you,” Ismaël says, raising his hands. “Either of you. I promise. I know where Meg Giry is.”

“Where?” Christine exclaims, her voice going high. “Please, you must tell us.”

“She is also at my home, with her mother,” Ismaël explains. “Madame Giry has been coming to visit Erik, which you may have already suspected. Mademoiselle Giry followed her there, and upon her discovery, said she was going to tell both of you. Her mother, fearing you would—understandably—summon the police, has kept her daughter in my flat. I came to find the both of you, because I could not convince Madame Giry that you perhaps might not like to bring the police into this at all, and because I knew you would be worried about your friend. I would like us all to come to an understanding, if we may.”

Christine grits her teeth, and there’s anger in her voice, anger at Madame Giry that overcomes even this news that Erik is here, in Paris. “She’s holding her own daughter hostage?”

“Well…” Ismaël shakes his head back and forth as if searching for a more reasonable explanation. “She is not hurt, I assure you. Madame Giry, I suspect, also knows that her daughter may think less of her now, for her secrets and for who she is protecting, and it is…complicated. My hope is that you will come with me and take Meg home, under the promise that you will not summon the police.”

“You…” Raoul sputters, grateful and flabbergasted all at once. “You want us to…to go to…”

“No.” Ismaël gives them a tiny smile. “I would not ask you to come while Erik is present. I know what he did to both of you, and while he takes refuge in my home, I have let him know how I felt about it. I let him know before it happened. He takes walks at night, when no one can see his mask. We will go then. There is, of course, a risk that he does not go out tonight, or that he returns early. I will not say it is not possible.”

“If he takes walks at night then how do you know he isn’t leaving these notes?” Raoul asks, but then she answers her own question. “But then…the incident yesterday was in the afternoon. What time does…Erik…” the name sounds strange on her tongue. “Take his walks?”

“After dark, past 9 p.m.” Ismaël answers. “When did the incident take place yesterday?”

Raoul considers. “Around four, I believe? Though the first note we received was late at night.”

“Erik was composing something that sounded rather sad at that time yesterday, because I grew tired of his piano after several hours, lovely though the melodies might have been,” Ismaël says.

“Wait,” Christine says, kinder than before. “You said you warned him against what…what he did to us before it happened. What do you mean? And…how did…how did Madame know where Erik was? Where you lived?” 

“That,” Ismaël answers, tapping his leg. “Is a story more suited to somewhere more comfortable, if you would allow me.”

Part of Raoul doesn’t want to allow, because she’s deeply wary of trusting a stranger. Deeply wary of this all being a trick. But then, she doesn’t trust the police, and she needs a lead to find Meg. To start figuring out who is sending those notes, if it isn’t Erik.

She’s still not entirely convinced it isn’t. She’s not convinced that a ghost couldn’t fool a friend.

She doesn’t want to walk into a trap, but Meg’s safety is paramount. It must be.

With one glance of agreement with Christine, she asks Marcel to take them to Monmartre—if they must wait until late to go to Ismaël’s flat, then they have the time. Marcel stops at _Le Hanneton_ , where Raoul and Christine find themselves once a week or so, when they aren’t busy. Adele, the manager of the place, quirks an eyebrow from her place sweeping outside the door when she sees them alight from the carriage with Ismaël in tow, though she gives a wave to Marcel, who parks to go and retrieve some coffee at a café down the street.

“Raoul, Christine,” she says, stopping her work and gazing at Ismaël with a curious eye. “It’s early, what brings you?”

“We need somewhere to speak discreetly with….” Raoul pauses, unsure. “Our friend. May we sit inside for a while? I know you’re not technically open.”

“Of course.” Adele presses kisses to Christine’s cheeks in greeting. “Go ahead in.” She winks at Raoul, surveying her gray trousers and her new jacket, navy-blue with silver embroidery on the collar. “I see you went to that tailor I recommended. Those trousers look nice. I’m sure Christine agrees.”

“Adele…” Raoul mutters.

“I do!” Christine says brightly.

Ismaël laughs softly, apparently amused, which surprises Raoul. How could Erik of all people, have a friend like this?

They go to a table in the back, immediately brought coffee and pastries by Sophie, the woman who usually runs the bar. She hands Raoul a cigarette too, and Christine tuts.

“I’m not telling you what to do, Raoul, but you cough sometimes when you smoke with Philippe, you know.”

“I’m sorry, darling,” Raoul apologizes, contrite even as she lights the cigarette in one swift movement, the pale red lipstick she’s taken to wearing sometimes leaving a stain behind. “I’ll be all right. I need one if I’m going to hear this story.” She looks up at Ismaël, smiling a little sheepishly. “This calms my nerves in a pinch, usually I only smoke cigars with my brother when he pesters me into it. I try not to make a habit of it.”

“I understand.” His eyes flick to Christine a moment before studying Raoul, pausing before he speaks. “Christine mentioned coughing, did…is that from your time with Erik?”

“It is,” Raoul says softly. “I am largely well, now, but I do cough more easily. The doctor says there was a touch of permanent lung damage, but nothing too terrible.”

Raoul shifts her cigarette to the other hand, reaching for Christine’s with her free one. This is the only place other than the opera house where they may show romantic affection in public—as well as where she may wear the trousers Adele teased her about—and the opera house is only a _sometimes_ sort of situation.

She needs to hold onto Christine if she’s going to get calmly through this moment, and she suspects Christine needs her just as much.

And so, Ismaël tells them his story.

“As you might be beginning to suspect,” Ismaël begins. “Madame Giry did help Erik get out of the opera house after the mob left. When he released you, he hid in a secret chamber in the lair, only emerging once they left. Madame Giry, wanting to know his fate, started making her way down, only to find Erik coming up. He told her where I was newly living, and she helped him get a discreet fiacre driver to take him there. Ever since, she has come to visit every so often. Recently it has been….more. Erik has been…well, he’s turned a bit more inward since the recent news of the opera house’s success. It reminds him of what he did. Of what he perhaps, could have had if he were less a fool. And he is, friend of mine though he may be.”

“He…he is regretful?” Christine asks, a tinge of hope in her voice. Hope Raoul wants to share, but isn’t sure she can, because any kind feelings about Erik don’t really belong to her, but she doesn’t begrudge Christine for them, either.

Ismaël nods. “Yes. Though, I feel he is more so than he wants to admit. Or perhaps even more than he realizes.”

A question beats between them as Christine pours some coffee, putting as much in Raoul’s cup as she does in hers or Ismaël’s, a small, tiny thing for which Raoul is grateful. She loves her siblings, she would do anything for them, but she wishes they would let her speak her own limits, rather than trying to institute them for her, as well-intentioned as they may be.

“What is it he thinks he might have had?” Raoul asks, remaining polite even if a small, buried, jealous part of her wants to tug Christine closer. “If I may ask, monsieur?”

“A chance to have any relationship with Christine,” Ismaël says without hesitation. “Even if it was not the one he wished for. A chance to have his music recognized. He assumed—not without reason, of course—that no one would treat him kindly, and so he became cruel himself. I came to Paris not long before the premiere of Don Juan, and reading the papers told me that it was Erik causing the chaos. I met with him, once, and urged him to stop what he was doing. Erik has always had a dangerous streak—I will not frighten you with the work he did for the shah in Persia, though it was not all death. He built an incredible palace there, as Naser al-Din has a great interest in architecture. Erik even built him a studio for his photography. I have always urged Erik to pay more attention to his talents that create rather than destroy. But he doesn’t always listen to me.”

Raoul feels the memory of Erik’s hot breath on her ear in an instant. The sting of the wound he left behind when he ran the knife down her face. The pressure of his body against hers as he rested between her knees.

_I worked for the Shah of Persia briefly as a young man, you know, before I ended up in a travelling fair. I built torture chambers. Assassinated people. You’re courageous, I’ll give you that, but you ought to keep your mouth shut, I should think. You thought because you managed to win a swordfight that I didn’t know how to take a life unless I had a rope in my hand? Think again._

Raoul jolts, and Christine squeezes her hand, running a thumb back and forth over her knuckles. God, why is she more upset than Christine seems to be? Does she even have a right to be? Christine is the one who was lied to. Christine is the one who heard that man’s voice in her head for months. Years. Christine is the one who had to be on stage with him, letting him touch her, and…

She remembers Philippe’s words to her a few days ago.

_You are one hell of a brave woman, but that doesn’t mean what happened didn’t leave marks. And I…well I think you need to not feel so ashamed of that._

He’s not wrong, she knows, but she hoped those marks would just be _gone_ after it was all over. Her life has been a miracle, this past year, but the dark moments still plague her, and she thought, perhaps, that they just might vanish.

They haven’t.

“I’m sorry.” Ismaël speaks gently. “I can stop, if you wish.”

Raoul shakes her head. “No, I’m sorry, monsieur, I only. It took me back there, briefly. To that night. He…he mentioned Persia.”

“I see.” Sadness glimmers in Ismaël’s eyes. Sadness for them, and Raoul appreciates the empathy this stranger has for their pain. “I know bits and pieces of what happened to you that night. And I wish I could have convinced Erik to stop his game before you both suffered the worst of it. But when Erik showed up at my door, I thought….well I hoped I could help him keep the humanity you gave back to him, Mademoiselle Daae. I’d like to think it’s worked somewhat. If he argues with me too much, I just remind him that I saved his life, once. That usually helps my case.”

“And Madame Giry…” There’s preemptive grief in Christine’s voice. “She…did she mean us ill? Did she send Raoul there in…” her voice cracks a little. “In hopes that Erik would kill her?”

“No,” Ismaël says, without pause. “Not at all, from what she has told me. She seems to care for your well-being. Both of you. But she cares for Erik too. I should let her explain her reasonings, and their relationship. I don’t like to put words in her mouth.”

“And Meg…” Christine regains her composure, but a tear does slip from her eye. “She is not hurt? Neither Madame or Erik have hurt her?”

“No,” Ismaël repeats. “She is afraid of Erik but told him quite plainly what she thought of him.” He grins in admiration. “It was quite refreshing to watch her dress him down and have him only stare. Usually only I have been able to accomplish such a thing. As for Meg and her mother, I think…well I think Madame Giry has things she must answer for to both her daughter and to both of you. Though I do know what it is like to have secrets. I am scarcely as good at keeping them as she—my helping Erik get out of Persia did not last long, and I did end up exiled for it. I am grateful they provided me with a pension instead of something worse, for assisting him. I do miss my home, of course, though travelling has been interesting.”

Raoul meets Ismaël’s eyes, intrigued despite herself. To hear Erik spoken of as a man rather than a ghost or a would-be angel is new to her. “That speaks to a great affection for someone, being willing to risk that.”

Ismaël laughs, and there’s amusement and bitterness in it. “I care for Erik as much as it is possible to care for someone who keeps nearly entirely to himself. He wasn’t marked for death because of something he did—though he surely did take lives—he was marked because he knew too much.”

“You saw the good in him,” Christine says, her words gentle and full of a grief Raoul’s heard before, the _maybe_ of Erik simply agreeing to remain her teacher, rather than insisting on something else, when the something else lead to so much destruction.

“Hmm.” Ismaël peers at Christine, and Raoul thinks he looks sad, like he wishes he could have prevented everything that happened at the opera house. “I think the good in him was drawn to the kindness in you, Mademoiselle Daae. And why, in the end, after all the horrors he inflicted on you both, he could not follow through even as he teetered on the edge of true madness. Why he could not take Mademoiselle de Chagny away from you, even if that was his objective up until the moment you changed his mind.” He looks at Raoul. “He remains intrigued by your willingness to challenge him, because people rarely do so, and live. I found myself rather alone in that regard, before now.”

Raoul doesn’t quite know what to do with _that_ , so she asks another question, instead.

“What did you do, in Persia? If I may ask. And please, call us Raoul and Christine, after your help, I promise there’s no need to stand on ceremony.”

Ismaël inclines his head. “You may, and thank you. I was a police chief, working for the shah. So perhaps I might be able to help you sort out who is sending these notes, once we manage this situation with the Girys. Whether or not you would like me to tell Erik of it is up to you. That secret I’m sure I could keep.”

“So the person sending these notes did not take Meg,” Raoul says, half to herself as she takes a sip of coffee. She turns toward Christine. “You were right. It isn’t Erik. I should have listened to you.”

“You did listen.” Christine brushes the stray hair that always seems to fall out of Raoul’s chignon behind her ear, some powdered sugar from the pastries falling off her fingertips. “It was not a ridiculous thing to think it was him.”

“No.” Ismaël shakes his head again, picking up a pastry himself. “It certainly was not.” 

* * *

They go after dark, at Ismaël’s suggestion.

Christine can’t quite catch her breath.

His flat is not very far from the de Chagny house—her house—just on the opposite side of the Tuileries in a bourgeois neighborhood. To think that Erik has been so close, for all this time…

It makes her afraid. It also comforts her, because he knows where they live, and yet he did not disturb them, no matter how close he may have been.

Perhaps he did mean it, that night.

They stop in front of the door to Ismaël’s flat, and Raoul’s eyes dart behind them, looking around in the dark hallway, her posture tight and tense. She seems ready to strike, and Christine can’t blame her. Not a bit.

She must do this for Meg, but she hopes Erik isn’t home. She hopes they can leave before he returns because she doesn’t think herself prepared to see him, and she worries for the effect it would have on Raoul when they now know for sure there is yet another person aiming to cause them harm.

Ismaël unlocks the door, and before Christine can think, before she can even take in her surroundings, there’s a high, shrill voice calling out to her.

“Christine! Raoul!”

Meg’s there, throwing her arms around Christine’s neck and holding on tight.

“Christine,” she repeats, her fair hair tickling Christine’s face. “I knew you would come find me.”

“Of course.” Christine pulls back, her hands resting in the crooks of Meg’s elbows. “Laurent came last night and the minute you didn’t show up this morning we were going to look for you.”

A stern, angry voice shoots through the air.

“As if I was harming you, Meg Giry.”

Meg lets go of Christine, squeezing Raoul’s hand before spinning toward her mother.

She exhales a breath. “I don’t think I’d call locking me up with the ex-opera ghost safe, Maman, would you?”

Meg’s words are sharp, sharper than Christine’s ever heard, and there’s a glint in her eyes, too. Christine takes a moment to settle herself in her surroundings. There’s a fire crackling in the sitting room they’ve stepped into, a lone servant tending to it, and though he looks at them, he doesn’t speak. There’s a small dining area on the opposite end of the sitting room, on the other side of a door that must lead to the kitchen. It’s a roomy, warm little flat, with paintings of what must be Persian landscapes and scenes of life hanging on the walls. There’s no real sign of Erik—he must keep all of his things in his bedroom.

“Ismaël, what have you done?” Madame Giry breathes.

Laying eyes on Madame Giry makes something burst open inside Christine, something hot and thick that rushes through her veins, making her skin grow warm.

She is so _tired_ of people she looked to as guardians lying to her. She’s an adult now with her own life and Raoul to share it with, but the two people she looked to for assurance, for safety after her father died, have thrown in their lot with each other, and there are only questions with no answers and they _still_ don’t know who is sending those notes to the opera.

The person who is threatening Raoul. Whatever else is in the notes, the threats to Raoul are crystal clear.

“I’m trying to sort things out between us all,” Ismaël says, and though he remains calm, there is a thread of irritation in his voice. “Christine and Raoul were deeply concerned about Meg and thought that whoever is troubling the opera house might have taken her. You must have known this was an impossible thing to keep up, Antoinette. Is Erik here?”

“No, he left only a half hour ago. He won’t be back for some time I expect.” Madame looks straight at Raoul and Christine before focusing back on Ismaël. “And trying to _sort things out_? I am trying to keep everyone safe. To avert disaster. To keep the police from Erik and Erik from Raoul and Christine. Seeing them will not be helpful to the changes he’s made, these past months. And now this imposter sending notes to the opera, which will surely end up in the papers eventually.”

“You were trying to avert disaster by keeping me locked here?” Meg argues, standing back with Raoul and Christine.

“You owe us an explanation, Madame,” Christine says, her voice rising. She wants to be kind, she wants to be understanding, but she’s weary of people taking advantage of that. “It’s not you sending the notes, I see that now, but you will tell us why you’ve done this.”

“Christine Daae, you will not speak to me that way.”

“I am no longer a young chorus girl afraid of you slamming your cane down on the floor!” Christine shouts, astonished at her own outrage. “You…” she sucks in a breath. “You lied to us. Raoul and I got that letter from Erik and you lied about Meg telling you. _He_ told you.” She pauses again, staring her old guardian in the eye. “You lied to me about who Erik was from the start. You let me think he was an angel. You let me think I needed to please him, or I would be dishonoring my father’s memory.”

Madame Giry raises one hand, something like regret passing across her face. “Christine, I’m sorry…”

“You could have stopped this!” Christine’s voice goes yet higher, and she doesn’t even know if it’s true, it’s probably not true, Madame Giry couldn’t control Erik, what Erik did was Erik’s fault, but maybe she wouldn’t have fallen prey, maybe…

“You are making too much of this,” Madame Giry retorts, her voice going cold, too cold, like she knows she’s wrong.

“Don’t tell I’m making too much of anything,” Christine seethes. “Erik hurt me. He almost _killed_ Raoul. I thought you were sorry when you helped Raoul get to the lair but now you…you helped him? You’ve been spending time with him and lying to us about it, all while working at the opera like nothing was going on?”

Meg’s hand slips into hers, and Raoul’s arm goes around her waist, and she feels strong, with them here, but she doesn’t want to stay, because what if Erik comes back before they can go?

Madame Giry takes two steps forward, a challenge in her voice. “Did you want him dead?”

“No.” Tears start brimming in Christine’s eyes. “You know I didn’t. But helping him doesn’t mean lying to Raoul and to me, to your own daughter, for over a year.”

“I did not like to lie,” Madame Giry admits, her eyes downcast. “But how could I tell any of you? How could I bring up the pain you went through? How could I trust you wouldn’t tell the police?”

“You know we did not push the police when they stopped pursuing the case,” Raoul cuts in, her voice uncharacteristically hard. “I asked my family not to fight it so we wouldn’t all suffer the hell of a trial and condemn Erik to death. We just wanted him to leave us alone. Even after we received that letter, we lost sleep over whether or not he would change his mind. We wondered if he would suddenly appear again and _you knew where he was._ We trusted you despite our suspicion because you helped me. Because you were Meg’s mother and because you worked hard to help us with the opera house. You should have trusted us. You could have put us more at ease and you chose not to.”

“Perhaps,” Madame Giry says doubtfully. “But it is well known that if given the chance, Raoul, your brother would gladly send the wolves after Erik.”

“That is not…” Raoul begins, her voice getting louder and louder and louder. “…such an insane thing to want, given he saw his sister on his doorstep almost dead because of a madman!”

Raoul’s voice rings through the room, and Christine’s arm goes tighter around her waist. Even when Raoul and Philippe argued the other night, Raoul didn’t sound like that. She didn’t sound like her voice was shredded to pieces. She clenches her fists like she’s keeping her nerves at bay, and she’s so brave, despite everything, and Christine just wants to make her safe. Raoul gave even the idea of safety back to her after so many years without it, and she wants to return that favor as much as she can.

“All right.” Ismaël steps in-between them. “We all need to calm down a touch before my neighbors complain. Erik is already an oddity.” He shoots a glance at Madame Giry. “And I ask that you explain your history with Erik, Antoinette. I agree with Christine that she is owed an explanation.”

“And Meg is coming home with us,” Christine adds.

Madame Giry makes to argue, but she falls quiet when Meg doesn’t come to her defense. Something twinges in Christine’s chest—Madame is Meg’s only living parent, and she hates this terrible rift between them. She hopes they can fix it, but the anger pulsing through her veins doesn’t give her an answer as to how.

Madame Giry sighs. “We do not have time for a long story, but I will tell you what I can.” She looks at Meg as if worried her daughter might never forgive her, but with everyone peering at her, she has no choice but to continue on. “I saw Erik in a travelling fair when I had not long been made ballet mistress at the opera. Meg was young, and my husband and I went, one evening, before he died. We saw a man locked in a cage.” She looks up at Raoul, who watches her carefully. “I told Raoul about this fair the night of masquerade, and it was not a lie. I just didn’t tell the whole story. People were terrible to the man in that cage. Terrible to Erik, and I never forgot him, especially not when rumors circulated that someone escaped from that fair and killed his captors. I started seeing shadows, in the opera house. I heard music as I haunted the halls at night, unable to sleep after my husband died. And I…” her voice trembles here, and Christine does feel for her—she knows the power of Erik’s music to soothe grief. “I went deep into the caverns to listen. The music was…it was otherworldly. I felt drawn to it. I started leaving things, for Erik. Food. Clothing—he was less adept at managing a life, down below the opera house, in those early days. We spoke sparingly, but I felt what I needed to know of him was in that sad music I heard.” She stops, looking up. “I was wrong about that. After he started extorting Monsieur Lefèvre, I cut off contact with him. But that night when the mob came down, I saw that man in a cage again, and I put aside my fear to help him.”

A long silence permeates the room, and Christine feels her heart pound and pound and pound. Madame Giry knew. She knew all along, that Erik was no ghost and she still…

“Why did you not tell me the truth?” Christine speaks into the quiet, near tears again. “Why didn’t just tell me that he was a man?”

Madame Giry opens her mouth to answer, but she isn’t given a chance to finish.

A key goes into the lock, the sound ringing in Christine’s ears.

_Laanat ba shaitan._

A word—decidedly not French, but definitely an expletive of some kind—slips past Ismaël’s lips before the door to the flat comes open, the hinge creaking into stunned silence.

The chandelier over the small dining table flickers.

For a fleeting second, Christine wonders if she’s gone mad, if the sounds are coming from her own mind, but then, someone steps inside.

She whips around, her hand immediately going for Raoul’s as chills shudder up her spine.

Oh no. Oh _no_. She’s not ready, but she doesn’t have a choice, now. They’re here, and the only way out is past the ghost who just entered.

A man in all black stands in the doorway, looking no different from any other gentleman out for the evening other than the wide-brimmed hat that doesn’t quite hide the mask, white leather visible in the soft light coming from the gas lamp on the wall behind him.

It gives him, Christine thinks wildly, a bit of an angelic glow.

Erik stares at her, his eyes caught on her face like he couldn’t move if God himself demanded it. If lightning struck. 

Christine stares back at him, transported without warning to the night of Don Juan, to standing across the stage from him, to the way he looked at her like his gaze might burn holes in her skin.

_Our games of make believe are at an end._

Those words shook her to the core, and she knew, then, that she was stepping into hell. He’d never taken her pain or her grief seriously. Not until she was on her knees, begging him for Raoul’s life. Not until he handed her back the necklace he stole, the touch of his cold fingertips making her jump.

She thinks of the way he dragged Raoul across the floor to string her up, and then how he dragged _her_ away, later, when she was desperately trying to undo the noose. Like neither of them were anything more than dolls for him to play with.

She hopes that _this_ is the man who kissed her on the forehead and told her he was sorry.

Finally, Erik tears his gaze away from Christine, aiming instead for Ismaël, who remains utterly calm. Unafraid, somehow.

There might be tears in Erik’s eyes. She isn’t sure.

“Daroga,” he says, danger thrumming like a dark song beneath his voice as he rips his hat off and tosses it across the room. “What have you done?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Laanat ba shaitan" means "damn the devil" in Persian/Farsi. At least according to Google translate, please feel free to correct me!


	4. I Loved Her So! And I Love Her Still

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A girl and an ex-ghost clash. Two young lovers have a proposition for the man who once swore to tear them apart. And as Erik confesses a dark secret to the Persian in his search for atonement, Raoul and Christine tell their first lie to Philippe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a general warning for some memories of the events of the final lair from She Was Bound to Love You, some of which are violent. Also for a pretty visceral panic attack. These things are tagged, but I always like to warn just in case!

Raoul’s heart explodes, bloody, ripped up remains splattering against the inside of her chest.

Wait, no.

It’s still beating, somehow. She _wants_ it to remain beating, but she was certain, for a moment, that the body-jolting fear might have killed her.

 _He’s_ here. In front her. Just a few feet away.

She keeps hold of Christine’s hand, and Christine, determined and planting her feet, doesn’t let Raoul step in front of her. Raoul might be the one learning savate, but Christine’s dress is long, and if Raoul steps too close, she’ll step _on_ it, which Christine knows. A bustle can, apparently, be a weapon.

“Daroga,” Erik repeats, his voice a low growl in his throat. “I asked you a question.”

Ismaël rolls his eyes when Erik slams the door behind him, making it rattle in the frame and probably waking a neighbor or two. Madame Giry takes Meg carefully by the arm, tugging her closer. Meg doesn’t protest, though makes a face as if she wants to, knowing better in the face of Erik’s temper.

“I’m doing what I needed to do, Erik.” Ismaël’s voice is calm, collected, and it’s astonishing, when Erik is looking at him like _that_. “I did not expect you to be home.”

“Someone looked at me for a moment too long, so I opted to come back.” Erik scowls. “You were going to keep the fact that… _the girl_ and…” he falters here, his voice going softer. “…Christine happened by for a visit, were you?”

Something about his tone, the way he refuses to say her name, makes Raoul do something she shouldn’t.

She speaks to the former opera ghost.

“I have a name,” she says, her words like the edge of a knife, like the edge of the knife he stabbed her with. She feels the tip run down her face. She feels it press against her throat, cold and sharp and glinting like the eyes of the man who wanted to kill her.

Erik spins around toward her in a swift, sudden movement that makes her jump even as she and Christine both take a step back. “What?”

“I said I have a _name_ ,” Raoul repeats, pressing Christine’s hand tighter.

His eyes narrow. “I’m aware of that, _Mademoiselle de Chagny_. Stop backing away from me, I’m not interested in harming you.” He says it like it’s an insane thing to even think, and that, for some reason, makes Raoul angrier. He looks at Christine, instead, his gaze softer. “You look well, Christine. I’m glad to see it.”

“I…” Christine meets Raoul’s eyes, bewildered, then glances back at Erik. “Thank you.”

Erik whips back around to Ismaël. “The question remains, Daroga. What kind of fool are you?”

Ismaël pinches the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes as he exhales sharply. “For all that is holy, Erik, please do _shut up_. We are going to sit down. All of us. Now that Raoul and Christine are here, I think you owe them, at the least, a few minutes.”

“I think your idea is unwise.” Erik pauses, anxiety glimmering in his eyes as he looks at Raoul and Christine again. “I released them. That is what I owed Christine. There’s nothing more to say.”

Heat runs down to the marrow of Raoul’s bones. It floods through her and it _burns_. She thinks of the deep, dark, bleeding dreams she used to have—and sometimes still does. She thinks about waking up screaming until it made her already sore throat ache yet more, even months later. She thinks of Christine jolting up in bed, tears streaming down her face as she clung to Raoul’s arm. Of how she jumped at the sound of a shout. She thinks of the coughing and the scars and the tea she drank to try and calm her nerves until she was so sick of it she wanted to retch.

She takes a sudden step forward and Erik takes a step back, his head jerking up. Christine lets go of Raoul’s hand, holding on to the back of her jacket instead.

“Easy, love,” Christine mutters.

“There’s nothing else to say?” Raoul seethes. “You could atone for what you did to Christine for a thousand years and it still wouldn’t be enough.”

“Raoul,” Christine says. Softly. Gently. Raoul loves her for that gentleness. That gentleness, her kindness despite it all, is the height of courage, and this man threatened to break it.

Finally, Erik meets her eyes, and there’s a flash of something in them, something Raoul has only hazy memories of from that night, when he cut her down from the noose. Something like remorse, but it’s maddening that he won’t speak to it. He plays so many games it’s impossible to know what is and isn’t a part of that, or if everything is.

“Is that so?” Danger rumbles up beneath Erik’s words, slick and sharp. His words have always been weapons, after all. When he lied to Christine in the first place. When he exposed them at the masquerade. When he called Raoul a deviant and a defiler.

“Yes.” Raoul bites out a sharp word of her own. “And you owe me some semblance of an apology, which is not a great deal to ask, given that you tried to _murder_ me.”

Erik steadfastly refuses to look at her, one hand trembling and clenched into a fist. “I told Christine I was sorry for hurting you that very night. I’m sure what else you would wish of me.”

She doesn’t recall that, she only recalls Christine telling her afterward. The only shred of that conversation she _can_ remember is Christine saying something like _hurt her? You’ve nearly killed her?_ before the pain swept her thoughts away.

Raoul gapes at him, her pulse thrumming against her skin with insistent, undeniable anger. “Hurt is rather an understatement, don’t you think?”

Erik jabs his finger into the air. “Don’t test me. You are impulsive as ever, I see.”

“I don’t think my impulsiveness is what made you throw a rope around my neck, was it?”

“It certainly contributed,” Erik snipes, but his words have an odd ring to them, like he wants to mean them, but doesn’t, entirely. “You were the first woman I ever tried to kill, take that as you will.”

“Erik!” Ismaël shouts.

Raoul slips out of Christine’s grasp, and Meg squeaks as Raoul stalks forward in a few fluid steps, shoving the ex-opera ghost as hard as she can. He does stumble, though he stops himself from falling.

“Damn you, girl!” Erik raises his voice, but though he takes a step forward, he doesn’t come any closer.

Christine’s there in a moment, sliding an arm around Raoul’s waist and tugging her back. Meg moves from her place next to her mother, putting an arm through Raoul’s.

“Erik,” Christine says, her voice going higher in the rare, dangerous sort of way Raoul’s heard only a few times before.

Erik twists his fingers, not looking at her.

“ _Erik_.”

He looks sidelong at her. “Yes, Christine?”

“I would ask you, please, not to speak to Raoul like that again.”

Erik faces her, a childish whine in his voice. “She shoved me…” he stops when Ismaël says his name in a chiding manner. “Fine. I will do as you ask. I will _try_.”

Sweat beads at Raoul’s hairline, and her racing heart is screaming at her to _go_ , to leave this place with Meg and Christine and forget hearing Madame Giry out. To forget Ismaël’s help with the mysterious author of the notes. To forget Erik.

But she can’t.

That, and she has another idea.

She turns to Ismaël. “Is there a place where I could talk with Christine and Meg a moment before we all speak?”

“Of course.” Ismaël points down the hallway. “There’s a small den there, first door on your right.”

Raoul nods at Meg and Christine, indicating she won’t go for Erik again, and takes Christine’s hand as the three of them go to the room Ismaël pointed out. As soon as she shuts the door behind them, there’s the sound of shouting. Erik, first. Then Ismaël’s low, calmer rumble. Then something sharp from Madame Giry.

Raoul reaches for Christine immediately, her breath shuddering as she pulls her close. The adrenaline makes her heart race, but it keeps the panic welling at the bottom of her stomach away, and she must keep calm, for now. She must get through this.

Raoul puts a hand on Christine’s cheek when they pull apart. “Are you all right?”

Christine nods, exhaling a shaky breath. “I think so. I think so.”

“Bastard,” Meg mutters, crossing her arms over her chest and plopping down on the loveseat. “I asked Maman what on earth she does when she comes here to visit him, and she said she listens to him play his compositions. I can only imagine it’s depressing and strange, if Don Juan was any indicator. Why he won’t put his talents to prettier use I don’t know. He could stand to learn from Rossini or Meyerbeer or Gounod or _someone_.” She smiles at Christine. “Tutoring you is the best thing he’s done, truly, the genius in him was recognizing the talent in you, but then of course he ruined that by being a scoundrel.”

Meg’s chatter cheers Raoul. No matter what absurdity might be occurring, Meg Giry is always herself.

“I assume he wasn’t pleased to see you, either?” Raoul asks.

“No.” Meg crosses her legs, unbothered, apparently by the sound of Erik shouting _dammit, Daroga_ out in the sitting room, though it makes Christine tense up. Raoul takes her hand as they sit down as well, Christine tucked in the middle. “But he didn’t speak much to me, really. He was too busy worrying to Maman that you might find her out and come here. Though I don’t think he thought Ismaël would just bring you.”

Christine tilts her head. “Worried we would have him arrested?”

“Hmmm.” Meg taps her chin. “No, Maman was the one more worried about that. I couldn’t figure out exactly why he was concerned other than, well…” she gestures vaguely in the air. “…everything. I was trying to listen, but Maman locked me in here a while and I couldn’t hear anymore since they were speaking in Erik’s room.”

Christine scowls. “She _locked_ you in here?”

Meg shrugs, but it’s obvious she’s upset by it when she wipes he eyes. “What did you want to talk about, Raoul?”

Raoul waits a moment when there’s the sound of another rising voice, Ismaël, this time, apparently losing his temper with Erik’s pestering.

_You impossible man!_

“Well…” Raoul looks at Christine. “When Ismaël was talking of helping us figure out who is sending the notes to the opera, and then when we saw Erik here I was thinking…well I think we ought to see if he can help us sort out who this new O.G. is. I wanted…” she swallows, anxiety pricking at her skin at the idea of being anywhere near this man, of Christine being near him, but who can help them figure out the identity of this new O.G. better than the man who started it all?

Is it foolish to make a deal with the devil who almost destroyed them to stop a new one from doing so? Probably. But they’ve been so happy, and the opera is so close to being entirely stable, that she can’t say no to this opportunity either. To stop this new ghost before he can get a foothold.

“…I wanted to ask you, first,” Raoul finishes, looking Christine in the eye.

“It frightens me,” Christine admits, holding tight to Raoul’s hand, and reaching for Meg’s too. “As I’m sure it does you. But I…now all the leads we could even think of are gone. And I think he might have insight we would not. He knows the opera house better than anyone. The secret places, the nooks and crannies. If we can get him to agree to it.”

“Oh,” Raoul says, looking out toward the door. “He will.”

They agree to go out. Meg leads the way, and before Raoul can step through the doorway Christine tugs on her hand, pulling her back. She slides both hands against Raoul’s cheeks, pressing their foreheads together.

“Are you all right?”

Raoul’s breath catches, her hands covering Christine’s. “No. But I don’t want him to see me…”

“I know,” Christine finishes. “We’ll try and make this fast. I suspect we won’t be getting all of our answers tonight, anyway. Madame and Erik are both too impossible for that.”

A few minutes later they’re all in Ismaël’s sitting room, Meg, Raoul, and Christine on the settee, and Ismaël and Madame Giry in armchairs opposite them. Erik stands, leaning against a nearby cabinet with decorative porcelain figurines on top, his arms crossed. A bottle of white wine rests on the table between the settee and the chairs, untouched until Meg pours herself a generous glass. Christine follows—though with half as much.

Erik breaks the awkward silence.

“I have been told that I am to say…”

Ismaël clears his throat.

“I would _like_ to say…” Erik corrects himself, pouring his own glass of wine and not looking at anyone. “…that I am sorry for speaking out of turn to you, Mademoiselle de Chagny.” He casts a glance at Ismaël. “Will that do?”

Ismaël sighs, taking a long sip of his wine before answering. “Not really, Erik, but let’s move on. Antoinette?”

Madame Giry sits straight-backed in her chair, her eyes shifting every so often to Meg. “Before we continue on, I should like assurance that the police will not be summoned against Erik or against Ismaël and myself in terms of having helped Erik.” She pauses, looking again at Meg, and then Christine. “I am sorry to have lied. On more than one count.”

The _sorry_ isn’t enough, but Raoul thinks they’ll have to handle the Madame Giry issue later on. What they’ll do about her position in the opera house she isn’t certain, and she can’t think of it, tonight. And what to tell Andre? That she wants the infamous opera ghost to help them find this new specter? She doesn’t want to lie to him, or to Carlotta and Piangi, who have put in so many hours.

Because she’s going to have to lie to Philippe. And Juliette too. She hates it, but it’s true.

“We aren’t interested in doing that,” Christine says, glancing at Erik and then Madame Giry before offering a smile to Ismaël. “You may trust us.”

“You may not be, Christine,” Erik cuts in, handling his words carefully, at first. “Your lover, on the other hand…”

Raoul clenches her fist, a bright, burning memory assaulting her as she tries and tries and tries to keep it back.

_Your lover makes a passionate plea. If I might deign to call her such._

“I am not interested either, monsieur,” she replies. “As long as you refrain from any attempted murder or kidnapping. It’s not a terribly difficult request, at least for most people.”

Erik scowls. “You insolent…”

“There is something I would like, however.” Raoul cuts him off, sliding the most recent note out of her pocket. “May I assume that Madame Giry has told you about these new notes we’ve been getting?”

“You _may_ , mademoiselle,” Erik says, sarcasm wrapped tight around his words. “What’s your point?”

Raoul unfolds the newest note, trying desperately to ignore the pounding of her heart. “ _Patience_ , I’m getting there. Ismaël very kindly offered to help us sort out who this new ghost might be, now that we know it isn’t you. And if you want to—let’s say _tip the scales_ toward your atonement, you’re going to help us, too.”

Erik puts his wine glass down on the cabinet, something like intrigue in his voice, something like the tiniest hint of respect for her boldness. “Am I? Do tell me why you think so.”

Raoul briefly meets Christine’s eyes, receiving a small nod of assent.

“Helping us with this means helping Christine,” Raoul continues with a nonchalance she definitely doesn’t feel, finally pouring a glass of her own wine. “And as I said before, it’s the least you can do after the way you treated her. I am not terribly eager to call in the police on this unless I must.”

Erik puts his hand together, resting his chin on the tips of his fingers. “And why is that?”

“Because…” Raoul takes a sip of wine, making him wait. “They were not terribly helpful to me in the past. You might be. You know the nooks and crannies of the opera house better than anyone, and know how this person might be getting around, where they might be hiding, and any of that might lead us to something.”

“Hmm.” Erik turns toward Christine, and there’s far less snark in his voice. “Were you aware of this idea, Christine?”

Christine frowns, and that has the power to make Erik falter in whatever mental game he was attempting to play with that question.

“Of course,” she says. “I’m in agreement.”

Erik adjusts his attention yet again, opting to stare at Raoul instead, as if trying to construe her thoughts, and the longer he does, the more the panic starts swelling up from her stomach into her chest, her breaths already a little shallower than they were before.

“Fine,” he says after a beat, snatching the letter from Raoul’s hand, and thankfully he’s too interested in that to notice her hand shaking just slightly. “Let me see this nonsense.”

“You said you were putting a two-week moratorium on rehearsals?” Ismaël asks while Erik reads.

“Yes,” Raoul replies. “The hope is that whoever this is might give up, although we obviously don’t know that.”

“We’ll have to keep the real reason out of the papers,” Meg grumbles, tossing back her wine. “Or they’ll hound us.”

“Don’t worry.” Raoul smirks. “We ran one of the writers off this morning. Or rather, Christine did.”

Christine covers Raoul’s hand with her own, squeezing her fingers and hiding the fact that they’re trembling.

Erik smacks the note down, which makes Christine jump. “How on _earth_ could you think this was from me?”

“Well…” Raoul begins. An itch grows in her throat, no doubt from the cigarette smoke and the stress and the shouting. “It was signed _O.G._ It insulted my violin playing. And it asked for exactly the salary you once demanded from Andre and Firmin.”

Erik sniffs, sweeping his glass back up. “I’ve never heard you play the violin, so I don’t know whether I ought to critique you. Though I suppose if Christine’s father taught you, it can’t be terrible. Christine mentioned you played well. Regardless, it should be obvious this isn’t my work.”

Christine tenses at the sound of her father’s name on Erik’s lips—no surprise, given he pretended to be sent by him _and_ defiled his grave—but she peers at him with curiosity too. Raoul, struck by the fact that the ex-opera ghost just said she might be a decent violin player sight unseen and on Christine’s word alone, can’t quite manage words for a moment.

“It doesn’t really matter that they thought it was you, Erik,” Ismaël cuts in. “It was not a wild assumption to make.”

Raoul gives a little cough, drinking more of her wine to cover it up. Christine notices, but she doesn’t do Raoul the disservice of looking and drawing attention to it.

They need to go.

“I’m sure Christine didn’t think it was me.” Erik focuses on Christine, and there’s just a hint of that old smoothness in his voice, mixing strangely with a kind of rawness, and that remorse Raoul saw in his eyes earlier. “Did you, Christine?”

Christine meets Erik’s eyes, and Raoul scoots closer, their sides pressed together.

“I wasn’t sure who it was,” Christine answers vaguely. “However, given the hour, I think we ought to go.” She turns from Erik, who visibly deflates. “Philippe will be wondering where we are, Raoul.”

It’s a cover for her, and Raoul’s grateful.

“We should meet again in a few days,” Ismaël suggests. “Bring the rest of the letters, we can take a look, and discuss, if you like.”

Raoul nods, giving him a smile. “Yes. Thank you.”

They gather by the door in a pained, awkward sort of way, with Madame Giry making one more restrained plea for Meg to come home with her. Meg says she’ll return in a few days, if Raoul and Christine will have her until then, and Madame Giry relents, stepping away from Christine’s judgmental gaze. With Erik, at least, the betrayal is a known one. With Madame, it just keeps compounding, and locking Meg up here seems to have upset Christine more than the rest of it.

Raoul shakes Ismaël’s hand as Christine thanks him profusely for his help. However strange his friendship with Erik, Raoul’s thankful for his interference, and whatever assistance he might offer. They step out into the hallway then, turning when Erik calls out to them.

Or rather to Christine.

“Christine I…” he struggles here, as Christine gazes at him in question. “…I wanted to say that…congratulations on your successes, at the opera. You…” he stumbles again, and it is _strange_ to watch the opera ghost speak with such ineloquence. “You deserve the praise you’ve received.”

Christine gives him a tiny, tight half-smile. A quarter of one, really.

“I appreciate that, Erik. Good night. And thank you, Ismaël.”

“Farewell, Christine,” Ismaël says fondly, and Raoul wonders just how many hours Erik has spent speaking of Christine to his friend.

As soon as the three of them reach the carriage—and a very worried Marcel—Raoul’s chest tightens, every breath a concentrated thought. It’s her damaged lungs and her nerves all at once, and as Christine runs a hand up and down her back on the short ride home, two thoughts resound through her mind.

If it isn’t Madame Giry, and it isn’t Erik, then who _is_ sending those notes?

And more urgently, right now—what on _earth_ is she going to tell her brother? 

* * *

Given the hour, Antoinette agrees to stay.

The problem with the Daroga’s flat is that he can’t play his piano deep into the night like he could in his lair, but Erik fingers itch for the keys. He’ll have to content himself with writing something, because sleep surely won’t come tonight.

“I thought your daughter might try and murder me flat out,” Erik says to her, sitting at the dining table with a second glass of wine in his hands. “She has more spirit than I gave her credit for.”

“You have a habit of making that same mistake where most women are concerned,” Antoinette replies, not without fondness. She sighs, visibly upset—a rare thing. “Though how I shall ever earn back her trust I don’t know. I’m as much a fool as you, it seems.”

Erik swallows down the rest of his wine. “No one is as much a fool as me. Meg will forgive you. Christine will too, I’m sure. If she can forgive me, forgiving you is almost nothing.”

Antoinette doesn’t answer, busying herself studying her cup, which is full of the black tea Ismaël likes, devoid of milk and infused with dried rose petals, the aroma of it light in the air.

“ _What_ , Antoniette?”

“You’re assuming she’s forgiven you,” she answers. “Her not wishing you ill is not the same as forgiveness.”

Erik chooses not to answer to that. “She looked well.”

“I’ve told you she was.”

Erik drums his fingers on the table, nervous energy pumping through him. “She loves that girl.”

“You knew that, Erik. It was why you let her go.”

Erik throws his head back, slumping in his chair. “That girl loves _her_. It wasn’t just a fleeting fancy.”

“No.” Antoinette pauses, searching the room as if the right words are just out of reach. “Raoul is a kind-hearted, smart, if sometimes brash young woman. I did not give her that credit at first, though the dangers I warned Christine about still exist. Raoul knows Christine does not wish you harm and so will not pursue harm against you. But you ought to be careful. The Comte de Chagny would have your hide over what you did to his sister, if he could, whatever Raoul and Christine’s protests. Never mind that you broke his arm—Raoul almost died, that night.”

Erik snorts. “She seemed the picture of health. Enough to shove me.”

Antoinette sighs. “You’re underestimating the effects of a noose around someone’s neck, Erik. Christine doesn’t tell me much, these days, but Meg told me that Raoul has had some mild trouble with her lungs, since. Her convalescence took some time. Nearly three months, until she was back to mostly normal.”

“If you like her so much then why are you here with her would-be murderer?” Erik snarls, though it’s half-hearted. “I know what I did to her, I don’t need you to remind me. I see Christine on her knees begging me in my dreams enough as it is.”

Antoinette gets up, pushing her chair back into place. “I’m here because I was fool enough to not stop you from pursuing Christine. I was fool enough to encourage it, even after I largely stopped speaking to you when you started extorting money from Monsieur Lefèvre.”

“You couldn’t have stopped me from pursuing her.”

“I thought she could make you happy,” Antoinette continues. “If only she gave you a chance. If she could fall in love with the same music that got me through my grief over my husband when I heard it in the depths of the opera house. Even if I feared you, I had hope for that. At least until you killed Joseph Buquet. Then I realized what a terrible idea it was to encourage her to take those lessons from you. To let her think you were a spirit and not a man. Even if Raoul never showed up, it doesn’t mean she would have chosen you. I think you need to understand that.”

Erik puts up one hand. “Enough, please.”

Antoinette goes, neither of them concerned about parting on argumentative terms—it certainly wouldn’t be the first time. She’s swiftly replaced with Ismaël, who comes in from finishing his prayers.

Ismaël pours some of the tea Antoinette left behind. “Are we done arguing for the evening?”

Erik nods, gesturing at him to sit.

He despises sharing his vulnerabilities, and he fears what lecture this confession, in particular, will draw forth from his friend, but he must make it, even so.

“I can’t believe you brought them here, Daroga.”

Ismaël blows on his tea, studying it through the clear glass cup as if to determining whether or not he steeped it long enough. “The situation was untenable. Antoinette could not keep Meg locked up here. And I did not think you would be…”

Erik cuts his off. “Home? You knew there was a risk I would walk in that door. Did you have some scheme in mind for my redemption?”

“No schemes,” Ismaël says. “And atonement is the word you’re searching for. I didn’t intend to put you in a room together, but I feel it can’t hurt, now, for you to help them.”

Erik thinks of the first week after he escaped the mob at the opera. Of laying in bed in the room just down the hall, listening to the chorus of whispers outside his door while Ismaël and Antoinette discussed what to do. While they worried. His torments were not consigned to dreams. Even in his waking hours he saw Christine in his mind’s eye, on her knees, sobbing and begging him to spare the girl. Promising she would stay and be his wife. He watched her heart break right in front of him, and he was the one doing the breaking.

He remembers waiting for news from Antoinette in long stretches of time he failed to measure, wondering if the de Chagny girl would die.

Her scream rang in his head for days. That scream that burst past her lips when he cut her down from the noose, ragged and ruined and wrecked.

He imagined what would happen if she died over and over again, in those days. He imagined Christine coming to his door, finding him somehow and shouting at him, all the light gone from her eyes. He realizes now that his actions that night had the potential to make Christine stop singing forever. He made it so that when she sings, she thinks of him, and if the de Chagny girl had died? Christine is stronger than he gave her credit for, then, but if her love had been lost in the depths of the opera, she probably would have never set foot back inside. He spent all that time forming her voice, teaching her, and put all of that in danger because he utterly lost control.

He came so close to committing a sin for which he could never atone. 

He came so close to making Christine grieve all over again.

But then, perhaps he did that when he tarnished a grieving girl’s memory of her father. When he put his unwanted hands on her. God, what if he had…

Perhaps he didn’t truly love Christine Daae until he let her go. At least, that’s how it’s seemed in the year and a few months since. Obsession is a nasty thing, leaving broken hearts in its wake. His broken heart, though he broke Christine’s too, didn’t he? And the de Chagny girl was there to put it back together.

It was strange, to see Christine, tonight, because when he thinks of Christine, he so often hears her, instead. Her singing. Her crying. Her voice saying _I hate you_ and then later, _Erik please, I have to get her out of here._ He has a perfect image of her in his head, but seeing her here, in her tasteful but expensive dress with her curls done in a stylish way rather than loose and flowing, with her hand in that girl’s, the way she stood up to him…it made him see that she has moved on with her life, whatever marks he may have left behind.

In the end, what does he know about her, really? He assumed the music was enough. He assumed the grief they both carried was enough. Hers over her father and his over…well, his whole life, really. He never knew the things that made her smile. The things that made her laugh. The thousand tiny things about her that weren’t her talent and the worst thing that ever happened to her. The things he took advantage of.

“I’m not a private investigator,” Erik mumbles. “You’re the ex-police chief. I was just the assassin.”

“But you are a professional ghost.”

Ismaël dares to tease him, and Erik allows it because how can he not, when Ismaël saved his life? Not very many people have cared whether he lived or died, and indeed many wish him dead. His mother, certainly, wished he had never been born, and he knew that from the moment he can recall even having memories.

Ismaël leans back in his chair. “So that’s the young aristocrat girl you complained about so much, then? Raoul de Chagny herself. I found her very charming and polite.”

“To you.”

“Yes, well. I didn’t try to kill her. Or insult her. That might have something to do with it.”

“I hate that girl.”

Ismaël arches one eyebrow. “Do you? I feel like perhaps there’s a thin line between hatred and intrigue. You’ve said before that you were intrigued she defied you.”

Erik takes a long, pointed swig of his wine. “I am _intrigued_ that she loves Christine enough to fight me for it. To fight the world for it. She maintains a certain hope, a defiance, even if people might call her behavior deviant. I certainly did.”

“But you hate her?”

“ _Yes_ , Daroga. She’s rude, to start. Her manners are lacking, even when we aren’t trying to kill each other.”

“Oh well,” Ismaël says, sarcasm dripping from every word. “You’re certainly known for your manners. You’re saying that because she’s a woman. Hers are far better than yours, my friend.”

Erik doesn’t reply immediately, and Ismaël lights a candle to accentuate the gas-lamp chandelier hanging above them, which is turned down low. They’re still caught in the half-dark, but Erik prefers that that as he slips off his mask, which he only ever does in front of Ismaël. A cool breeze blows through the open window, ruffling the curtains as the clouds move, a thin stream of silver moonlight spilling into the room. It’s only right that the moon should accentuate his confession, given how much he’s always found himself at home in the night. And this, he decides, isn’t something he should say in front of the daylight.

“Ismaël?”

“What’s the matter, Erik?”

“I’m afraid that being around Christine and the de Chagny girl will…” he takes a deep breath. “I’m afraid it will make me revert. I’m dangerous, Ismaël. I promised you years ago I wouldn’t kill anyone else. I broke that vow. More than once.”

Ismaël puts down his tea, folding his hands on the table. “Killing is a choice, Erik. You are in full control of whether or not you do so.”

“Am I?”

“Yes.” Ismaël turns harsh, a thread of frustration running through his voice. “People have been cruel to you, Erik. I will not deny it. I do not like it. It is not fair. But you still possess the range of reason and humanity to choose whether or not you hurt people. All of us may cause harm without intent in our lives, but you intended to harm Raoul de Chagny. You chose to lie to Christine. Neither of whom deserved what you unleashed upon them. They were not the ones who were cruel to you.”

Erik laughs bitterly. “You give me credit for humanity. Quaint, Daroga.”

“Stop.” Ismaël smacks his hand on the table, which does surprise Erik enough to pay attention. “It was your humanity that Christine gave back to you, bless that sweet girl’s soul. It was your humanity that caused you to choose her happiness over yourself. If you do something terrible now, it will be your choice to do so.”

“I killed people in Persia because I was told to, and I liked the power it gave me,” Erik says, his voice low in the quiet. “I killed my captors from the fair because I had to. When I killed in the opera…I killed Joseph Buquet to scare the rest. I tried to kill Piangi and killed the stagehand instead because they were in my way. But that day in the graveyard, and after Don Juan…I wanted to kill that girl to _show_ her. I’d never laid my hands to a woman like that before and I felt like I couldn’t stop. Like the monster was all there was, and I could never go back, and that night in my lair I…” he looks away from his friend, this friend who cares about him for no good reason that he can see. “...I was going to kill the de Chagny girl even if Christine chose to stay. It was only the illusion of a choice. A game only I could win.”

He’s never said this to anyone. Not Antoinette. Not Ismaël. Only to himself. He remembers how much he reveled in stealing the breath from de Chagny’s lungs. The way he wanted to pull the rope tighter just to make her be quiet, to vanish her from the world so he could have what he wanted. So he could have his salvation.

Christine.

Except, Christine wouldn’t have wanted him, anyway. Not in the way he wanted her. He wrecked his chance at being her teacher when he was determined that she be his wife.

When he put the knife against the de Chagny girl’s neck he was pleased to see her fear, he wanted her to see that the world was a dark, cruel place, he wanted to cut that defiance, that hope out of her voice.

He’ll never forget the shock of guilt that went through him when he saw her on the ground, gasping for air.

He’d never felt guilty when he killed someone, before.

With her, he felt guilty with the _almost_.

And when it started, it didn’t stop.

The confession doesn’t scare Ismaël away. Nothing seems to scare him away.

“Why, Erik?”

Erik stares down at his mask, the white glinting at him in the half-light of the dim room. “Because I wanted to. I wanted her to beg me for her life, and she begged for me for Christine’s freedom instead and I _hated_ her for it. I wanted her to know that everything she did was for nothing. She would have to watch Christine choose to stay with me, and then meet her end.”

He remembers the rough feel of the rope, the way his fingers brushed against de Chagny’s pulse as he tightened the noose around her throat, the way he wanted to push down until it stopped thrumming against her skin. Until she went limp and cold and couldn’t stand in the way of all his plans. The girl’s breaths came in warm, sharp gasps, heartbreak hovering between them and her eyes glowing with tears of rage—she was so alive even as life slowly left her. Blood dripped down from how tightly he’d tied the ropes around her wrists, it dripped down from the cut on her abdomen and her face and he reveled in it. She was so young, and her body was so easy to break. All human bodies are, when it comes down to it. The swipe of a blade. A hand on a throat. A head knocked just the right way, and death would come before the person even knew what was happening.

Except, he wanted her to know.

It was why he chose the rope.

Killing was never personal, really, but it was that night. More than he wanted it to be. He should have cared that she was a young woman without the experience to really stop him, but she did try, and she did fight, and it only made him want to hurt her more. He stopped himself from following through with his monstrous act—or rather, Christine did—but he has no doubt that those desires are living just under the surface, whatever Ismaël might say.

“Erik…”

“Spare me,” Erik snaps. “I know she wouldn’t have wanted me like that even if Raoul never appeared.” It’s the first time he’s ever used the girl’s given name, and he doesn’t even know why he said it, really.

“You didn’t just want to hurt Raoul that night,” Ismaël says, his words crisp, clear, and leaving no room for argument. “You wanted to hurt Christine, too.”

Erik argues, anyway.

“No.”

“Yes, Erik. You weren’t just threatening Raoul as a method to get Christine to stay. You weren’t just hurting Raoul because you hated her. You wanted to punish Christine for betraying you, isn’t that right? But you wouldn’t dare put your hands on her like that, so you made her watch as you tortured Raoul, instead.”

Erik remembers the anger building within him when he and Christine were alone, fighting over the wedding dress. He remembers how his temper nearly gave way like it did when she took off his mask, but then the de Chagny girl appeared and he found a new target. He wasn’t thinking of it the way Ismaël is saying now, because then, he wanted to blame everything on the girl.

But he was angry at Christine, too. Angry at her perceived betrayal.

“I wanted to take the girl away from her,” Erik admits, and god damn _it_ , there are tears in his eyes, and he hates it. He _hates_ it. “To show her that I was all she needed. But then in that moment when she kissed me, when she was crying, begging me on her knees, when I saw, clearly, that she was willing to give up everything to save the de Chagny girl, I…I found I couldn’t do it. She looked at me like I was a person and not a monster, even in the moment when I was trying to take everything from her. I stopped being her angel, then. I was just trying to damn her to hell with me.”

“The truth is not always healing,” Ismaël says, more solemn than Erik’s perhaps ever heard. “So I would suggest never confessing this to them. But if you want to atone for that moment, now is your chance. That is the choice you have to make. Do you want to?”

“I want to help Christine,” Erik answers. “I sacrificed my own happiness to ensure hers. This imposter shouldn’t like to experience my wrath should he stand in the way of that. If helping the de Chagny girl is part of that then so be it, I suppose. I’ll take part in her plan if it helps Christine.”

Something flickers in Ismaël’s eyes. Something Erik can’t pinpoint.

“I will repeat again that doing any harm is a choice you make,” he says, looking Erik straight in the eyes. “But if you feel tempted, in the slightest, to spirit Christine away, or harm Raoul, I am asking you to tell me about it immediately.”

“I will.” Erik nods in agreement. “You may exact that promise.”

He means it, now.

He only hopes that later, he won’t turn that promise into a lie. 

* * *

Philippe isn’t alone when Raoul, Christine, and Meg return home.

Raoul’s been encouraging Philippe to resume his social life rather than thinking he needs to wait at home for them, but Christine wishes that tonight of all nights, that he hadn’t taken her up on it. Philippe spent the day with his old friend Felix, but it’s not just Felix here—it’s Felix’s wife, Philippe’s friend Victor and _his_ wife Monique, plus two other men Christine may have met, but can’t recall their names. She’s met so many people since being pulled into the de Chagny social circle that it would be impossible to remember them all.

“Raoul, Christine!” he exclaims, joyful and perhaps a little drunk. “And Meg! We were quite worried about you last evening, are you all right dear?”

“I…” Meg hesitates, rocking back and forth from heel to toe, clearly nervous about reciting the story they came up with in the carriage. “Yes, I’m quite fine, Philippe, thank you. Maman has a head hold and the messages I sent to tell Laurent didn’t arrive last evening, so he was worried. Raoul and Christine found me at home this morning, but Maman didn’t want me to catch it, and sent me to stay with you all, for a few days. Someone in our building is going to look in on her.”

Philippe inclines his head. “I’m sorry to hear she’s feeling poorly. Come join us!”

Another coughing fit from Raoul diverts Philippe’s attention. The trouble is it’s not just his, it’s everyone in the room, the chatter dying off awkwardly as cigar smoke curls into the air, the fire crackling nearby.

“All right, Raoul?” Philippe asks, furrowing his brow and noticing her shaking. “I was a bit worried, you didn’t say you would be out tonight. We went to the Opera-Comique and came home and you still weren’t here.”

Raoul nods, but it isn’t convincing when she starts coughing again. It took time after they returned from Brittany last year for the de Chagnys to resume their social life, for the invitations to come from people other than their closest friends, and Christine hates that things are growing strange again now, when normalcy has just been restored for Raoul’s family. _Her_ family.

Christine beckons Philippe into the entrance hall. “We were in Monmartre,” she tells him, which is not a lie, but it’s not the whole truth, either. “And it was very crowded and there was a lot of smoke, tonight, so Raoul isn’t feeling well.”

“Please make my excuses?” Raoul says, clearing her throat.

Philippe presses Raoul’s shoulder. “Of course. But what of the opera, before you go?”

“We agreed to the two-week stay of rehearsals,” Raoul replies. “So we shall see what happens, then. Apologies for the lateness, we got got up talking to some friends.”

Raoul winces at the lie, and it doesn’t go unnoticed by Philippe.

“Are you sure you’re all right, my girl?”

“Yes. I just need to rest.” Raoul clears her throat, smiling at her brother. “Please Philippe, go enjoy. I’ll be fine.”

“I’ll send up Helene to help Meg get settled in,” Philippe says, referring to their fairly new housekeeper. “Let me know if any of you require anything.”

Christine presses a kiss to Philippe’s cheek, and they bid Meg farewell at the top of the stairs, handing her off to the care of Helene and promising to speak more in the morning.

Raoul rushes for the bathroom as soon as the door closes behind them.

She vomits immediately, her whole body shaking, and she coughs a few more times. Christine gets on the floor with her next to the commode, rubbing circles into her back with one hand.

“I’m sorry I smoked the cigarette,” Raoul chokes out. “I shouldn’t have.”

“My love,” Christine says softly. “I don’t think the cigarette is the only cause of this. You don’t need to be sorry.”

Raoul hovers over the commode, as if afraid she might vomit again. “I made it through all of that, I fought through it and now…”

“Your mind was protecting you until you could get home,” Christine replies. She doesn’t know if that’s exactly how it works, but it seems to, sometimes, with her and Raoul both. “You aren’t weak, Raoul.” She says that before Raoul can, because she knows it’s coming.

Raoul shuts her eyes tight, exhaling a breath. “Aren’t I? You aren’t here, vomiting up lunch. He hurt you terribly.”

“I struggle in my own ways.” Christine smooths sweaty strands of hair from Raoul’s face, thinking of how on bad days she can spin the same scenario over and over and over again in her head, searching for the worst case that might happen and trying to make herself believe it won’t. It doesn’t happen as much now as it did in those first few months when she was still trusting that they were safe, but now…well now she fears it may start again. “And he hurt you too, Raoul. It’s just different. Come here? Please?”

Christine holds Raoul close, toying with some of the damp hair at the back of Raoul’s neck, not letting go until she hears her breathing even out, which usually indicates the end of one of these spells.

“I hate lying to Philippe,” Raoul says, her words muffled against the sleeve of Christine’s dress. “And Juliette. And even Eloise. But we can’t…we need to at least…see if Ismaël and Erik can help us sort out who this might be. Philippe will want to summon the police if one more thing happens, and I know it’s because he wants to protect us, but if the police know the papers will know and…”

“I know,” Christine echoes. “And then what will happen to the opera?”

There’s a knock on the door and Madeline comes in at Christine’s assent.

“Raoul.” She clicks her tongue in concern. “Philippe says you’re not feeling well?”

“Not very, Madeline,” Raoul answers, trying a smile for her long-time ladies maid. “Would you mind bringing…” she sighs as if it pains her. “…some of my tea? I’m sorry to keep you up. I know it’s late.”

“Your brother is holding court,” Madeline says wryly. “So the noise of that may keep me up for a while. I’ll be back in a bit.”

Raoul’s stomach finally settles enough to move, and after washing her mouth out, Christine helps her undress while Madeline is downstairs.

“We don’t have to do this,” Christine says, unbuttoning Raoul’s waistcoat as Raoul shrugs off her jacket, still trembling a little. “Asking Erik to help, I mean.”

Raoul divests herself of her shirt, laying it and the jacket on the nearby chaise lounge. “If you don’t want to, then we won’t.”

“I’m asking if _you_ still want to go through with it,” Christine emphasizes, batting Raoul’s hand away as she undoes the clasps on the corset herself.

“It was my idea.”

Christine laughs, a smile sliding across her lips. “I know that, stubborn, I just want you to know that we don’t have to do it.”

Raoul doesn’t say anything, at first, sliding off her trousers and the shortened chemise she wears when she dons her trousers, getting her nightdress on before answering.

“I think we do,” she whispers. “If he becomes too troublesome, then we’ll have to stop. But he knows the opera house. And right now, calling the police in means telling all of Paris.” She gestures at Christine to turn around so she can help with the laces on her dress.

Christine shakes her head, patting the nearby armchair instead.

“Christine. Let me help you.”

“Let me help _you_. I can tell you still don’t feel well.”

Raoul relents with a crooked half-smile, sitting down so Christine can take the pins out of her hair. She brushes through it once that’s done, pleased when she sees some of the tension slide from Raoul’s shoulders, unable to stop herself from running her fingers through the long, soft strands. She puts it in a braid for Raoul, receiving a warm, lingering kiss for her trouble.

Madeline comes back in with the tea and helps Christine undress while Raoul drinks it. Christine drinks some too, because anything that might help hers sleep after this night can’t hurt, and she doesn’t want Raoul to feel alone with it, either. She helps Raoul use the inhaler Dr. Aubert left that fateful night, which calms the remainder of the coughing spell. They turn down the lamps and go to bed after a short while, even as the noise of Philippe’s gathering drifts up the stairs. Christine curls up close, her head resting on Raoul’s shoulder and her arm draped over Raoul’s waist, their legs tangled together. It makes her feel safe, like as long as she’s here, no one—not Erik, not this new ghost—can take Raoul away.

“I’m not going anywhere.” Raoul kisses her gently in reassurance. “I promise. I’m very hard-headed, you know.”

Christine laughs softly, easing into that earnest vow even if she knows that no one can ever truly promise that. She does feel sure that Erik, at least, won’t be the one doing the taking, if the way way he kept looking at her was any indication. He was terribly rude to Raoul—which she intends to speak to him about—but it was clear, at least, that he seemed desperate to please her. She’s not entirely sure what to do with that, given she’s so used to fearing his every word, his every move, fearing that anything she did would make him furious, but it’s an improvement, for certain. She’s not sure if she can trust it, but she’ll take it, for now.

It's this new person she’s worried about. She didn’t want it to be Erik or Madame, exactly, but at least that would have been an answer, and her instincts, as it turns out, were right. The question remains.

Who is the new O.G.? And most important of all: what do they want?


	5. A Spectral Shade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The game begins as unlikely allies try to figure out who is impersonating Erik. Raoul struggles with her nerves, and with the man who once tried to kill her. As tensions rise in both the opera house and among the de Chagnys and their family, Christine has a gift for her wife.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's tagged, but just a warning for non-explicit sexual content toward the end.
> 
> Also there are mentions of Eloise and Juliette's children--Estelle (15) and Henri (12) belong to Juliette, and Claire (11) and Jean-Luc (8) belong to Eloise!

Two days later finds them back in Ismaël’s flat.

It finds them back in Ismaël’s flat drinking coffee with…Erik.

The opera ghost.

The angel of music.

If someone had told Christine this is where she would be a week ago, she would have scoffed at the mere idea.

And yet.

She’s on the settee with Raoul, while Meg sits in the armchair across from them looking deeply unimpressed with Erik, who again, insists on standing with his back against the cabinet with the decorative figurines. Ismaël is helping his servant Darius with some pastries in the kitchen, and while they wait for him a prolonged, awkward silence falls. Christine searches for something to say so that Erik doesn’t start talking, but anything she can even think to ask feels like wading into dangerous territory. Not that she thinks he’ll harm them, at this juncture, but she’s in no mood for his tantrums.

That, and she doesn’t entirely trust him. How could she?

_What are you writing, Erik?_ No.

_Any thoughts on Faust, Erik?_ Decidedly not.

All she knows about is his music, and his music is precisely the thing she doesn’t wish to discuss.

She realizes now, how much of her young heart she offered to him, letting him hear her cry, telling him how much she missed her father, how lonely she felt sometimes, and how little of himself he gave in return, thinking that the music was enough.

“May I see the other notes this imposter sent?” Erik asks, gesturing at the small pile in Raoul’s hand.

“No,” Raoul says, her voice even, by some miracle. “We’re waiting for Ismaël.”

“All right,” Erik mutters, as if searching his brain for some other topic. “I’ve been keeping up with the papers,” he begins, focusing on Christine, instead. “And was pleased to hear of your triumphs, Christine. I do hope one day you won’t have to share them with Carlotta.”

Christine takes a sip of her coffee before answering. “Carlotta is a talented woman, and a friend of mine. I’m glad to share the stage with her. And she’s been a wonderful teacher for our sopranos, especially the younger ones.”

That hangs between them, and Christine, so used to stopping herself from taking Raoul’s hand anywhere outside of their home, the clubs in Monmartre, or sometimes in the opera depending upon who is around, doesn’t stop herself now, though she does keep it small, her pinky curling around Raoul’s in order not to make a scene of anything.

“Piangi has always been deeply helpful to the tenors, Meg’s own Laurent included,” Raoul says quietly, giving Erik a pointed look.

“Yes!” Meg pipes up, more cheerful than she has in the past few days. “Laurent is very grateful to him for his improved technique. His tenor C is much stronger than before.”

Erik takes a long, drawn out sip of his coffee. “Are you speaking to your mother again, Mademoiselle Giry?”

Meg stares at him with all her mother’s sternness but none of the secrets. “No. Raoul and Christine are kindly allowing me to stay with them.” She _keeps_ staring at him despite the fear clear in her eyes. “Because they are _good_ , _dear_ friends.”

“So I understand,” Erik says vaguely. “And what of Antoinette’s position at the opera? I’m sure you’ll be looking for a new ballet mistress?”

He directs _that_ comment at Raoul, and it takes every ounce of Christine’s self-control not to slap him. It surely wouldn’t end well, but the more impolite he is to Raoul, the faster she finds herself sliding toward it.

If anyone is being insolent right now, it’s Erik.

“That has not yet been decided.” Raoul puts her coffee down, running her free hand across her dark green skirt, a typical thing now, when she’s sweaty from nerves. “She has done a great deal of work for the opera, especially lately, and we do not like to leave her out in the cold. The issue is complicated, but she has not used her relationship with you to hurt the health of our venture.” She pauses. “As far as we know. I assume you ask this because you assume me cold due to my wealth, but I assure you the opposite is true. I know how lucky I am.”

Another awkward pause, and Christine longs for Ismaël to return—he has some kind of odd power over Erik’s behavior, though she doesn’t understand it in the least. She looks at her purse sitting snugly against the settee, which now contains a surprise for Raoul. A bracelet she had commissioned a few weeks ago that she picked up with Juliette this morning while Raoul was attending to some business with Philippe about his will. Philippe recently became rather concerned about making some changes to it, including leaving the Paris house to her and Raoul, since Henri, the heir to his title, would inherit the country home. Given that Juliette and Francois and Eloise and Alexandre own their homes in Paris, Christine supposes Philippe wanted to make sure they were taken care of, but Philippe’s been worried about a great deal lately.

Given everything, she’s waiting for the right moment to give the bracelet to Raoul, hoping it might serve as a matching piece to the necklace Raoul gave her when she proposed. She used her significantly better pay from the opera to keep it a complete secret from everyone except Juliette.

“No trousers today then?” Erik grouses, no doubt in retaliation for Raoul’s sharpness with him a moment ago.

Raoul blushes, and Christine clasps her hand, damn the consequences.

“Stop it, Erik,” she snaps, and he jolts so hard his coffee nearly sloshes over the edge of the white china cup.

Ismaël comes in then, and Christine’s thankful for the distraction of the pastries and Raoul laying out the three notes across the table.

“Was there anything else?” Ismaël asks as Erik leans over, reading the two notes he hasn’t yet seen. “That happened along with these?”

“Each of them had rose petals in them, largely half-dead,” Raoul says. “A reference to the fact that I usually bring Christine red ones when she performs, so it’s hard to specify based on that, given how many people could easily know. When the second note came there was some…” she swallows, and Christine squeezes her fingers. “…some scenery broken while we were rehearsing. And a doll that looked at least conceivably like me that…” her eyes flick to Erik, who is too busy reading the notes to pay attention. “…dropped down from above, with a noose around its neck.”

Erik doesn’t say anything, he doesn’t look up, but he does stop reading.

“I can understand how…unsettling that would be.” Ismaël lands on the word _unsettling_ like he means something more but doesn’t want to speak to it.

“The third note was addressed only to Raoul,” Christine adds, letting Raoul take a moment. “Whereas the other two were to both Raoul and Andre. I found that strange. It…well it seems to me that this person is after Raoul, and not just out to hurt the opera’s prospects.”

Ismaël folds his hands. “I would tend to agree with that assessment. The personal touch of the rose petals, the focus as you mentioned before about the violin playing….” he takes the notes from Erik, swiftly reading the one on top. “…the several directed insults. The opera might be a secondary thing to this person. It’s early to tell, but it does seem that you, Raoul, are the intended target.”

Raoul runs a hand over her face, her shoulders hunched, and Christine’s heart breaks, a little.

“Why?” Raoul asks. “I can’t think of anyone who despises me this much, even if society people like gossip.”

“No angry ex-lovers?” Erik cuts in.

“No,” Raoul shoots back. “This is obviously a man’s work, and as you were very intent on reminding me in our previous interactions, I’ve not been involved with any men. Don’t ask me that again.”

“The husband of an ex-lover, perhaps?”

“Erik…” Christine begins, at least half of her wondering if this is worth it, but they have to sort out who this is, because she agrees with Ismaël—there is a real threat to Raoul, even if Raoul wants to downplay the idea.

“It’s not an insane idea, a man being angry that you dallied with his wife,” Erik continues, interrupting Christine. “You asked for my help. I can’t help if you aren’t willing to grant my theories any credence.”

Raoul swallows, looking Erik straight in the eyes as her voice catches fire. “I haven’t dallied with _anyone’s_ wife.”

“Before they were married, then, if…” Erik tries.

“Erik, enough!” Ismaël raises his voice, but only slightly, which is enough to make Erik stop.

“Good lord you are rude,” Meg chimes in, and Christine’s grateful for her.

Erik, contrite or perhaps just embarrassed, clears his throat. “I am certain this must be someone in the opera. If they were able to break scenery, and the like…well I know those tricks. They would need to know the ins and outs. Is there an employee you’ve argued with, Mademoiselle de Chagny?”

Raoul shakes her head. “No. We pay everyone fairly and if there is an issue I tell them to come to Andre and myself. Our door is open. But there is…well there was other one small thing that might along with that theory.”

She looks at Christine, a silent question in her eyes that Christine reads without needing to say anything.

“The door to…the dressing room.” Christine doesn’t say _which_ dressing room. She can’t quite make herself, and she doesn’t need to, anyway, her voice trembling a touch as she lands on the two words. “It was unlocked.” She squares her shoulders, forcing herself to look at her old teacher. “It’s been locked since we returned.”

“Reasonable of you,” Erik says, almost softly, and again, very different from how he speaks to Raoul, almost like he thinks Christine is fragile.

She doesn’t like it.

“I also see that you blocked off access to my old home, according to one of these notes.” Erik puts his coffee down, one finger tapping against the cabinet, his voice like steel instead of silk. “Also reasonable, but how far down did it go? The lake makes thing difficult, and there are places to hide down there, if not suitable for living.”

“Just from the dock and the portcullis into the space. We hired some of the men who originally worked on the construction of the opera house for it.” Raoul takes a pastry at Meg’s quiet urging, given she barely ate breakfast this morning, knowing where they were going.

It didn’t pass beneath Philippe’s notice.

“It must be someone in the opera,” Erik repeats. “There’s too many places to slip in and out. Too many places to hide. Ismaël said the first note you received, it was at night?”

Raoul nods. “Yes. I understand why you think this, but I can’t understand the motivation. And the personal touches are so…specific. The rose petals. The mention of my violin playing. The…” she takes a deep breath. “The noose.”

“Motivation can come from the tiniest thing, girl,” Erik snaps. “And these letters are obsessed with money. More than mine ever were.”

“They are,” Ismaël cuts in. “But they’re also very pointed against Raoul. I think whoever this has something personal in it. There’s a reason they’re pressing Raoul for money and not another wealthy target.”

“If you haven’t considered Andre, you ought to,” Erik adds. “These are details he would surely know, and he got into the opera for money in the first place.”

“Andre enjoys music very much, even if he isn’t a practitioner himself,” Christine says. “It’s not him. He doesn’t…it doesn’t suit.”

Meg picks up a second pastry. “She’s right. Andre doesn’t have a scheme in him like this. Besides, he doesn’t seem to have financial problems, as far as we know.”

Erik scoffs. “As far as you _know_. I’d hardly call some red ink, a few rose petals, and a disturbing doll a scheme.”

Raoul gets up abruptly, her cup clattering against the saucer. “Yes, well, not everyone is as artful as you.” She turns toward Ismaël. “Would you mind if I got some water from the kitchen?”

Ismaël smiles. “Not at all. Darius can bring it if you wish.”

“No no, I’m fine getting it.” Raoul returns the smile before turning to Christine, speaking very softly. “All right?”

The _all right_ is code for _are you fine in this room without me_ , but Christine knows that Erik can’t whisk her away with Ismaël right here, so she isn’t worried.

Christine nods, watching Raoul go before rounding on Erik.

“I would politely ask,” she says, one fist clenched against the soft fabric of the settee. “That you refrain from aggravating my wife to amuse yourself.”

She says the words _my wife_ on purpose. She may not say it to the society people who run in the de Chagny social circle. She may not say it to Raoul’s friends—other than Celine—even if they already know. She may not say it in a shop or a café or when she goes to Mass.

But she will say it here.

She will say it to him.

Erik stares at her, like he can’t believe she spoke to him that way, as if he thinks she only can in the midst of panic and rage deep down in the depths of the opera when there’s a noose around Raoul’s neck. For a moment, she’s back there, her own shouts ringing in her head.

_I hate you!_

“I am doing…” Erik begins.

“Doing us a favor?” Christine asks, though she doesn’t shout. “Don’t you dare say that. Be polite to her, or we will leave.”

That quiets him.

“I apologize, Ismaël.” Christine looks at the other man, whose eyes twinkle like he might be impressed. “I don’t mean to argue in your home.”

Ismaël waves his hand. “Don’t concern yourself, dear. Erik and I argue once a week, at least.”

“Daroga.”

Meg snorts as Raoul comes back in with the water, handing a glass to Christine.

“I would ask you to make three lists,” Ismaël begins. “One of opera employees who returned to work after everything with Don Juan, those who did not—where possible—and new hires. We can sort through those together and see if anything arises.”

“Yes,” Erik agrees. “I also think I should explore the opera, if I am to show you potential places where someone might be hiding, etcetera.”

Yet another pall falls over the room. A deep pall, and there’s a heaviness in the pit of Christine’s stomach. An old, anxious heaviness she couldn’t let go of during those last few weeks at the opera. Ismaël’s looking at Erik, and he’s brushing his fingers back and forth against his palms, but he doesn’t strike the idea down, either.

The idea of Erik, in the opera is…Christine knew it would likely come up but she…

She wishes it didn’t have to.

“I will also come,” Ismaël finally says. “I will not let Erik out of my sight.”

Erik doesn’t argue, and for that, Christine is grateful.

“Before we agree to it,” Raoul adds. “I feel I must bring this up. I do not like to lie to the company, but it would be impossible to tell all of them that I am asking the opera ghost for assistance. That would surely, somehow, slip out to people we don’t want knowing. I will not, however, move forward without telling Andre, Carlotta, and Piangi, who have put in as many hours as Christine and I have.”

Erik rolls his eyes. “Andre is…”

“Not the new ghost.” Raoul’s crisp, razor sharp words cut him off. “I will not lie to him.”

“But you will lie to your brother?”

Christine almost steps in, but she lets Raoul handle it.

“I would rather not discuss my siblings with you, monsieur,” Raoul says, with less open irritation than before, like she’s holding something fragile close to her chest.

Christine knows just how badly Raoul feels for what happened to Philippe, how he could have been killed if he was hit in the head, how much she wanted to keep Juliette away from Erik. Eloise too, despite their haphazardly patched-up relationship. It’s half the reason for the lie in the first place—Raoul doesn’t want Erik near her family.

“In any case if you don’t agree to us telling them, this endeavor is over,” Raoul continues. She looks at Ismaël. “Eager as I am for your help.”

“Fine,” Erik agrees, before Ismaël can say anything. “Daroga?”

“I have no argument. Are you due there soon?”

“In an hour,” Raoul tells him. “We should probably be going.”

“Leave the notes, if you would?” Ismaël asks. “Erik and I can take another look at them. I think our next step should be going to the opera. If your friends agree to it.”

They thank Ismaël—and Erik—before heading out with Meg. Christine swears she hears Erik say her name as she steps out the door, like he might wish to say something to her before she goes.

She thinks of the man who kissed her on the forehead that night, tears in his eyes, angry that Erik’s buried him under a barrage of sarcastic insults.

And she doesn’t turn around. 

* * *

They drop Meg off at a café near the opera to meet Laurent. He’s the only member of the company to know the truth about Erik’s involvement, sworn to secrecy. Meg expressed that she would rather not be present while they tell Andre, Carlotta, and Piangi about her mother’s secrets, and Raoul can’t blame her.

When she’ll speak to her mother again is unclear.

Marcel leaves them at the steps of the opera, promising to return in two hours. They slip inside, and Raoul notices Christine hesitate in the doorway. Leaving the opera entirely abandoned for two weeks would seem suspicious, so there are a few people coming in and out. Largely the seamstresses working on costumes, which always, without fail, need extra time. If they can start up again in two weeks, opening night will be a month after that, and there’s still so much to do. Still, Raoul doesn’t want to risk anyone, and if something more happens, she might have to allow even less people inside.

But Erik, much as she hates to admit, can’t be entirely wrong, because who is it, if not someone inside the opera? She just has no idea who. No suspicions. No suspects.

Sometimes she wonders if he’s fooling them somehow, and yet despite all the insults thrown at her, he seems determined to help.

Or rather, to help Christine.

Raoul’s not sure how she feels about that, other than hoping he can help them figure this out. She can bear his hatred to find answers.

In any case, the seamstresses are here this week, and the stagehands next week, so as not to have enough people in the opera house where this new ghost might like to make a scene.

“Do you want to wait outside?” Raoul asks.

“No.” Christine shakes her head. “I’m sorry. Just jittery.”

“I understand why,” Raoul mutters, itching to take Christine’s hand.

She opens the curtains once they’re inside the managers’ office, the sun flooding in through the glass and brightening the room considerably. Raoul pulls out the chair from behind her own desk, gesturing at Christine to sit down. Raoul drops to her knees, folding her hands over Christine’s taffeta clad knee and resting her chin there.

“So.” She looks upward, smiling as Christine’s hand comes down, brushing lightly against Raoul’s cheek. “You were quite fierce back there. Telling Erik not to aggravate me.”

“You heard that?”

“Mmhmm.”

“Well.” Christine moves her hand from Raoul’s cheek, toying with a loose strand of hair instead. “He shouldn’t speak to you like that. I’d like to give him a kick in the shins, even if I’m not the one learning savate. I’m sure you and Jules could teach me something.”

Raoul laughs softly. “You don’t don’t have to defend me, darling.”

Christine huffs, long-suffering. “You’re my wife. I absolutely do.”

There’s a tiny tremor in Christine’s voice, so Raoul takes one of her hands, pressing a kiss to each knuckle.

“Are you all right?”

“Yes.” Christine speaks firmly before faltering. “No. I don’t know.” She looks down, her free hand grasping the fabric of her gown. “I’m ridiculous. I shouldn’t…”

“You are not ridiculous.” Raoul gently cuts Christine off. “I was retching after dealing with the man just two days ago.”

“He thinks I’m a child,” Christine says. “I’m not. I was, when I met him. But I’m not anymore. And yet he seems to want my approval. He certainly won’t get it as long as he’s rude to you, I can tell you that much.”

Raoul’s heart goes pitter-patter in her chest. “You called me your wife to his face. Brave woman.”

Christine presses Raoul’s hand before letting go, crossing her arms over her chest and sticking her nose in the air. “Well you are. Perhaps I can’t say it to many people, but I can say it to him.”

Raoul gets up at the sound of footsteps coming toward the office, her pulse pounding out of instinct, but it’s just Andre, followed a moment later by Carlotta and Piangi.

“Hello,” Andre greets them, looking a little green around the edges at the prospect of being in the opera house again. He searches the room. “No Meg or Madame Giry? I was relieved to hear in your note that they were all right.”

“Yes, but you were a little cryptic Raoul, _mia cara_ ,” Carlotta adds. “Please tell us what’s going on.”

So, they do. They tell them about Madame Giry and her strange friendship with Erik. They tell them about Ismaël and his help. They tell them about the events of a few evenings past.

“So you’re sure?” Carlotta asks, her hand going over Piangi’s like she’s afraid he’ll slip away. “That it isn’t him? That he’s not playing tricks?”

“A very fair question,” Christine responds. “But we’re sure. As sure as we can be about any of this. Ismaël could account for Erik’s whereabouts, and as we started going over the notes with them, it seemed clear that they’re from someone else.”

“And the idea is that…” Piangi swallows. “…it’s to ask the ghost and his friend for help about who it could be?”

“Yes,” Raoul says. “But we wanted to speak with the three of you before we went any further. If it must be a secret from the rest of the company, Meg and Laurent and Madame Giry excluded, I was determined it would not be from any of you. And if you don’t want to interact with Erik, please do not feel you must.”

“I think I would kill him with my bare hands if I did.” Carlotta clenches her fist even as her words shake. “So I would rather not. Ubaldo?”

Piangi shakes his head, eyes flitting to Raoul. “I would prefer not to see him. I don’t know how you can, Raoul. What you went through was even worse.”

“I…” Raoul tries to keep her voice from cracking. “I take it moment by moment, believe me.”

“And what of Madame Giry?” Andre asks, sounding truly angry for the first time Raoul’s heard. “That is…well she wasn’t using it against us, but it’s…well it’s concerning behavior. It won’t do to replace our ballet mistress right now, it would look suspect, especially with the delay, and we have come too close to be pushed out now. And I can’t say she hasn’t worked hard, this past year.”

Christine’s face goes dark at the mention of Madame Giry, so Raoul takes up this particular point.

“It is complicated, and I don’t like to leave her in the cold.” She bites her lip, meeting Andre’s eyes. “We were planning to try and hire an assistant, so perhaps we ought to do that now, just as an assurance. Another voice in the ballet corps.”

“Poor Meg,” Carlotta says. “Having her mother lie to her in that way. She’s staying with you?”

“She is.” Christine smiles at Carlotta’s concern. “Part of me feels foolish, being angry, because I don’t know what I would have done, had I known she was in touch with Erik. Especially given that I’m now asking for his help.”

Carlotta reaches for Christine’s hand across the deck, a kind of ferocity glimmering her eyes that makes Raoul feel better, for some reason.

“You have every right to be angry,” Carlotta tells her. “She lied to you, and to Meg. I remember the two of you, running about the opera house and giggling, sharing secrets like sisters. Someone who claims to be a mother should not lie.”

“We were also….” Raoul pauses here, gathering her own courage, because if she thinks too much of this ahead of time, she won’t be able to go forward. “…going to bring Erik and Ismaël here to look around and show us where whoever the culprit is might be hiding either themselves or their secrets. I think calling the police into this won’t do, at least not unless we must. Who knows if that would then leak to the papers. And then to all of Paris.”

“I should like to be present, if you’ll have me,” Andre says, nodding in agreement. “Given I…well I barely saw the man, myself. No matter how much havoc he wreaked on my life. And as a second set of eyes. You say his friend keeps him in check?”

“Somehow, yes.” Raoul sighs, shaking her head. “It’s one of the few reasons I’m willing to do it. Ismaël also asked for lists of the company, which we’ll go over according to who was new, and who returned. If you don’t mind, Andre, could you write down who didn’t return? You know that group better than I do. We have a week and half before we’re meant to begin rehearsals again, and if we can, I think we need to try and figure this out by then. We could perhaps add a week without too many eyebrows but…well you all know some people are looking for reasons for us to fail, and put the Opera in the hands of people who might not care for it as much as we do.”

Andre agrees, and for a moment, the five of them sit in silence. Raoul listens for sounds. Any small noise.

Today, there’s nothing.

Yet.

“Part of me wonders…” Andre muses, tapping his chin. “If the culprit is someone who wants to manage this place themselves. I wouldn’t put this beyond some devilish composer who thought himself a genius. That was the case before, after all.”

Raoul can’t disagree with that, and it makes as much sense as any other theory. More sense, really, if the person perceived her as stealing away an opportunity. Still, how would someone not of the company make this happen, other than an ally on the inside? Perhaps she’s making it too complex, but she’s coming up short on ideas.

She was so sure it was Erik.

They part after that, with Andre promising to send Raoul the list of company members who did not return as soon as he’s able, and Carlotta and Piangi saying they’ll continue their lessons with some of the singers away from the opera house.

A man with silver-gray hair meets Andre at the door, nodding with a shy smile while he speaks quietly in Andre’s ear. Raoul tries not to stare at them as Andre winks at them before waving goodbye.

“Was that…” Raoul tries, once Andre is out of earshot.

Christine grins. “Yes, I think it was. I’ll be.”

“We inspired him,” Raoul decides, a little lighter now despite it all, a deep fondness welling in her chest.

“Oh goodness.” Christine smacks Raoul on the arm.

“What?” Raoul protests, a strange giddiness filling her up to the brim. She just wants to forget, for a while, she wants to push the always simmering panic away, she wants to go back to the life she had a week ago, and maybe for a moment, she can. The sun strikes the chandelier hanging over the staircase, making sunlight sparkle against the marble.

Christine puts a hand on her hip, cocking it out to the side. “We _inspired_ him?”

“Yes.” Raoul slips an arm around Christine’s waist, tugging her toward a tucked away alcove beneath the stairs where they definitely haven’t, ever, kissed before in secret.

Christine smirks in the shadows of the stolen away space. “May I ask what you’re up to?”

“Kissing you,” Raoul says casually, pressing her lips quickly against Christine’s. “That is, if you would like me to.”

“I would indeed.”

Raoul complies, Christine’s lips warm and inviting against her own. It’s all she thinks about, for a minute or two. Just Christine. Just her.

At least, until there’s the sound of someone running down the stairs, a shout echoing through the grand hall.

Raoul and Christine rush out, meeting Madame Brodeur, the head seamstress. The usually steady woman is pale, her hand clasping a note that’s already been opened.

“This was on my work table,” she tells them, handing the note over. “The envelope was addressed to me, but I realized once I opened it that it wasn’t.”

_Mademoiselle de Chagny,_

_I see you’ve canceled rehearsals. A bold move._

_I assure you, however, that cancelling those does not mean being rid of me._

_And if the money I’ve asked for doesn’t appear in the locked dressing room before these two weeks are up, you won’t be starting them again._

_And then who knows just how long it will be before people are whispering of Raoul de Chagny, the spectacle of all Paris, once again?_

_Consider this a warning, mademoiselle._

_Your obedient servant,_

_O.G._

Raoul’s hands start shaking and when she tips the envelope, it’s not dead rose petals that fall to the ground, this time.

It’s the fibers from a rope. 

* * *

Raoul loves her family dearly. Deeply. Eternally.

She would, however, like nothing better than to be on her own, right now. Or at least with Christine, who easily knows when she might like to sit in the quiet, both of them reading, or, on some nights, Christine looking at her lesson notes for Estelle while Raoul tries her hand at some more composing. She’s not had as much time for it, with everything at the opera.

For now, she must listen to her siblings discuss the note from this afternoon, the note she couldn’t hide because Philippe arrived at the opera shortly after she received it, coming to check in on them. She couldn’t hide it from him then, not when she’s already keeping so much from him, and certainly not when he saw her face. Juliette’s next to her on the settee, watching Christine and Meg over at the piano with Estelle, who is learning a new song to play for everyone. Sometimes Raoul joins in on the piano lessons—much to Estelle’s delight—though she finds she’s not as attuned to that instrument as she is her violin.

Eloise is upstairs, tending to an upset Jean-Luc, and Raoul hears the sounds of Henri and Claire’s childish laughter floating faintly down toward them. At eleven, Claire is jealous that her girl cousin gets to eat dinner with the adults now, so Henri, one year older and taking it upon himself, seems to be hoping to cheer her up.

“It must be that terrible scoundrel from before,” Alexandre’s saying, more to Philippe and Francois than to Raoul herself, the three of them a few feet away by the hearth. “You can’t seriously be thinking it’s someone else.”

“Raoul,” Juliette says, squeezing Raoul’s shoulder. “How is Meg doing? I know you said her mother had a head cold and she was staying here to avoid catching it, but are they quarrelling?”

“No,” Raoul lies, her heart sinking toward her stomach as she tells this falsehood to her beloved older sister. “She’s just worried about Christine and me. Wants to keep close.”

“She’s such a dear girl,” Juliette says fondly. “A fierce friend.”

Raoul studies Meg a moment, her lips tugging upward into a half smile. “She is that.”

“Have you told Celine or Clara or any of your other friends about the goings on at the opera?”

Raoul turns back toward her sister. “No. I worry too much for it accidentally getting out if I send a note to anyone, but I may tell Celine, if I see her. If you see her before I do, feel free to explain but let her know she can’t tell anyone. Even her husband.”

She’s drawn back toward the conversation at the hearth, where Philippe is saying _if it is that bastard from before I’ll see him locked up, at the least._

“You could go retrieve your violin, if you like?” Juliette suggests. “Play a little for us while Christine helps Estelle.”

Raoul takes a long sip of her Cognac, giving her sister a tired smile. “I’m not sure I’m up for it, tonight.”

Juliette quirks an eyebrow, gesturing at the men by the fireplace. “It might make them stop talking.”

That, Raoul considers, is true, and she’s just about to take Juliette’s suggestion when the conversation once again demands her attention.

“Christine has been quite clear she thinks it isn’t him,” Francois says. “And Raoul says she might feel similarly, now.”

Philippe runs a finger over his mustache. “Those rope fibers do point to him, but then. I don’t know. Perhaps it’s too obvious. Calling the police into this will just make people gossip, because it will get out. Damned fools were useless before, anyway. Though it may be necessary, eventually.”

“You could just pay what’s being asked, I suppose.” Alexandre puts his glass on the mantle, the sound ringing in Raoul’s ears. “See if that puts paid to it. Some rough villains like this just want the money they’re after and aren’t clever enough to carry on a scheme.”

Raoul tosses back the rest of her drink. She should let it go. She knows she should because Philippe won’t agree to that idea, besides.

“Raoul,” Juliette says softly, but she doesn’t get to finish.

“We can’t do that.” Raoul cuts into the conversation, remaining on the settee so as not to escalate anything. She doesn’t want another shouting match like the last dinner, especially given Alexandre’s propensity for raising his voice.

Alexandre holds up his hands. “It was just a suggestion, Raoul. You should at least think about it before damning the idea outright.”

“The books I keep for the opera are honest,” Raoul says. “I won’t have them any other way. People are looking for me to make a mistake. Lying about finances would be what those who would see Andre and I gone are looking for. The Paris Opera managed by a woman who didn’t even attend the Conservatoire—no matter that I hire the best minds in the city, and am more willing to listen to them than someone with their own designs might be—and a man who let a ghost run it near to ruin before? It’s not simple.”

“You don’t have to take the money out of the opera’s reserves, Raoul.” Alexandre picks up his glass again, and the sound scrapes Raoul’s skin. “All of us in this room could easily pay that small price and no one would be the wiser.”

The conversation draws Christine and Estelle’s attention, and Raoul’s determined to keep calm.

“With all due respect, Alexandre,” she replies. “This isn’t the sort of problem that you can just throw money at. If we do, this person could easily demand more and keep us in their grasp.”

“Hmm,” Philippe agrees. “That’s my feeling as well. The manager previous to Andre and Firmin paid the ghost, and it only encouraged him. If this is him—or someone else—I’m sure it would be the same.”

“Well,” Alexandre sniffs, snide and sharp. “I am simply saying that waiting for something else to happen doesn’t seen wise to me. You could at least pay them until opening day, which, if it’s as successful as we all expect it to be, if there are any more issues you’ll be in safer territory, especially if Charles Garnier is impressed. And besides, I know that I, for one, would not care to endure another bout of being gossiped about if this gets out of hand before that security arrives.”

Eloise comes down the stairs then, halting just behind Raoul on the settee.

“They weren’t gossiping about you, Alexandre.” Raoul looks down, biting her lip and swearing she won’t cry. “They were gossiping about me. About Christine. Even about Philippe and sometimes Juliette.”

“I assure you they did gossip about us,” Alexandre argues. “We are a family, after all. De Taillefer and de Chagny are connected in everyone’s minds, as is right. Two of Eloise’s friends still don’t come as frequently.” He glances up at his wife. “Isn’t that right, my dear?”

Eloise’s hands come to rest on Raoul’s shoulders, and it’s so surprising that Raoul jumps, though not enough to make her sister pull away.

“It is true, but I don’t blame Raoul for it,” Eloise says.

“Of course not.” Alexandre doesn’t falter, exactly, though he does look surprised at his wife’s answer. “I’m only saying that none of us need suffer that fate. You and Christine don’t need to be swept up by the whims of some other madman.”

Raoul doesn’t have a chance to answer, because Philippe puts on a smile instead, turning toward Estelle and Christine at the piano.

“Let’s put away this talk for now. Esetelle, _ma petite_ , you were going to play us something?” Philippe winks at Christine. “I’m sure your teacher has taught you everything you need.”

Christine smiles, though it’s tighter than usual. “Estelle is an easy student. I know she’s ready.” She leans down toward Estelle, who blushes. “I’ll turn the pages for you, all right?”

Estelle nods eagerly, and Juliette takes Raoul’s hand as her daughter plays, the notes swirling up into the air, peaceful and perfect. Eloise squeezes Raoul’s shoulders before going over her husband, who presses a kiss to her cheek as Philippe and Francois leave the hearth. Francois sits on the arm of the settee next to Juliette, watching with bright eyes as Estelle plays. Philippe takes the spot on the other side of Raoul, picking the decanter up off the table and silently pouring her a little more cognac before putting an arm around her shoulders.

“You were gone for quite a while today,” Philippe whispers, low so he doesn’t intrude on Estelle’s playing. “Where were you?”

There’s a pang of anxiety in Philippe’s voice, and Raoul tries hard not to take it as suspicion.

“Some business with Andre at the opera, and then we wanted to show Meg Monmartre,” she says, knowing she’ll have to come up with something else soon, because this is the second time she’s used that excuse. “We got caught up there.”

Raoul tries to feel safe as she sits between the two siblings who raised her. She tries to feel calm as Estelle plays her beautiful song, the song Christine taught her, but as she sits here with her secret, the secret she’s holding close to keep her Erik away from her family and to keep Philippe away from the knowledge of what she’s doing, which will surely end with police and the loss of the opera, of what she and Christine have worked so hard to reclaim from a ghost, all she feels is trapped. 

* * *

An hour later, Raoul and Christine are finally upstairs in their suite. Raoul’s sitting cross-legged in one of the armchairs, her eyes narrowed in thought as she reads her George Sand volume, plaited hair hanging over one shoulder. Her nightdress is slipping off that same shoulder, and Christine finds herself eager to kiss it as Madeline finishes taking down her hair.

“Anything else, dear?” Madeline asks Christine, casting a fond glance at Raoul and knowing she’s lost somewhere in her own mind.

“No.” Christine presses Madeline’s hand. “Thank you, Madeline.”

Madeline goes, shutting the door behind her, and Christine, without notice from Raoul, retrieves the box with the bracelet in it from her bag before sitting down in the other chair.

“Raoul?”

“Hmm?” Raoul asks, only half present until she looks up, jolting a touch when she sees Christine. “Oh. Sorry, darling. I was a bit caught up. Is Madeline gone?”

“Just a moment ago.” Fondness warms Christine’s chest, her fingers tightening around the box. “May I have a moment or are you too occupied by your book?”

“No, of course you may.” Raoul smiles, and the brightness in it, the brightness despite the anxiety, makes Christine lose her breath.

Raoul marks her place, resting the book on the table between them, the smile turning curious. “What’s that you have?”

“Something I commissioned before any of this began,” Christine tells her. “But I wanted to give it to you anyway. I know we have our rings, but I wanted…” she steadies herself, somehow still so overcome with emotion even though she lives with Raoul, sees her, every day. Maybe that’s why, because when she wakes up each morning, Raoul is still there like a shooting star Christine was lucky enough to catch. “…I have the necklace that you gave me when you proposed, and I wanted you to have something like that from me. I wanted it to buy it with my own money, from the opera. Now that I make more than a chorus girl’s wage.”

Raoul tilts her head, reaching across for Christine’s hand. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I know. But I wanted to.”

Raoul shifts, threading their fingers together. “You like to do some things on your own.”

“Some things.” Christine looks up, gazing at Raoul and just a little determined to tease her. “I know someone else like that.”

“You can’t possibly mean _me_.”

“No.” Christine shakes her head, placing the velvet box into Raoul’s free hand. “I would never imply that either of us are stubborn.”

Raoul laughs, her eyes downright glowing as she opens the box.

“Christine,” she whispers, lifting up the bracelet. “This is beautiful.”

She studies the wide bangle bracelet, which is silver with gold overlay, complete with a motif of roses intermixed with violins, some of them lightly painted with red around the edges, and others with a blue matching Raoul’s eyes.

“You like it?”

“I do,” Raoul says softly, leaning over the table to kiss her. “It’s…I can tell how much thought you put into it. I shall wear it every day.” She gazes at Christine like she’s never been more astounded by anyone in here life, a few tears sparkling in her eyes. “You’re my very own miracle. Do you know that?”

Christine blushes. “Raoul.”

“It’s true.” Raoul leans forward, clasping the bracelet in one hand and Christine’s fingers in the other, speaking with the unabashed earnestness that’s so very _her_. “I’m sorry I haven’t…I know I’ve been struggling lately.”

Christine moves closer, holding Raoul’s chin gently as she brushes a thumb up and down her cheek. “You’re allowed to struggle. It doesn’t make you less. You’re so brave, Raoul. My hero, truly.”

Raoul shuts her eyes, leaning into Christine’s touch. “I just want to forget for a while. That there’s some new madman after me. Or, well. I assume it’s a man. I suppose I should be more equal about it. It just reminds me of…”

She presses Christine’s hand, putting the bracelet down with care before pulling away and standing up, her hand resting on the back of the chair as she looks in the little hanging mirror on the sitting room wall.

Raoul runs a finger down the barely visible white scar on her cheek. “Am I so frustrating as to draw this much ire? I know people gossip about me, but this? You were right. Whoever this is, they’re very focused on me.” 

“No,” Christine says, getting up from her chair and going to Raoul. “You don’t deserve this, my love.” 

Raoul turns her head, a little smile on her face that makes Christine’s heart skip a beat. “I just wish I knew who it was. Or even had an idea. Erik may think so, but I _don’t_ have a long parade of jilted ex-lovers out to get me. So that can’t be it. Celine certainly isn’t interested in extorting money.”

Christine wraps her arms around Raoul’s waist from behind, her head pressed against Raoul’s back.

“Too many people missing out on you, in my opinion.”

“Hmmm. I think you’re biased.”

“And I can’t think of why anyone wouldn’t adore you. I’m just lucky enough to get to be the one to keep you.”

Raoul laughs, though it trembles like she might cry. “In love with me, Christine Daae?”

Christine leans closer, whispering in Raoul’s ear.” Desperately.”

She shifts Raoul’s hair over, pressing a kiss to her neck and then to the bare shoulder that’s still uncovered by the nightgown.

“Let’s go to bed.” Christine speaks close again, delighted when it makes Raoul shiver. “What do you think?”

Raoul nods enthusiastically as Christine takes her hand, leading them out of the sitting area and toward the bedroom, kicking the door of the inner chamber shut with her foot before pushing Raoul up against it, their thin cotton nightdresses the only thing between them and each other’s bare skin. Raoul’s usually busy trying to kiss Christine senseless, but tonight she lets herself be kissed, and Christine revels in it. Raoul makes the little familiar happy noise in her throat when Christine deepens the kiss, tasting cognac on her tongue as Raoul’s hands slip around her waist. She presses her body against Raoul’s and she just wants to stay here, she wants to live in the faint scent of Raoul’s lavender perfume, everything about her warm and soft and so alive, even on a day like this.

Christine leans her forehead against Raoul’s when they break apart, tugging at the sleeve of her nightdress.

“Off with this, I think.” She grins, and it makes Raoul’s cheeks turn pink. “I have plans for you.”

“Oh?” Raoul smirks. “Do you now? And what if I have plans for you?”

Christine hand drifts across Raoul’s chest, running down toward her stomach as she brushes across the sensitive skin. “Your plans will have to wait, I’m afraid.”

Raoul puts hand on her hip, playfully pulling away. “My, you are bossy this evening.”

“Hush,” Christine chides, laughing as the sparkle returns to Raoul’s eyes. “You’re incorrigible.”

Her hand slips beneath the hem of Raoul’s nightgown and _that_ is enough to make Raoul stop talking as Christine helps her out of it entirely, before discarding her own as well. There’s a series of quick, messy kisses as they make their way onto the bed, Raoul resting against the pillows and Christine hovering over her.

Raoul is so eager and generous a lover that it can be difficult to get her exactly like this, ready and willing to have Christine do as she will. Christine’s heart beats in her throat, and she might cry for how beautiful Raoul is, those blue eyes bright with desire for her and only her. All she wants is to protect Raoul from any further pain. To steal away her nightmares. To make her feel happy and safe and well, like Raoul has always done for her. She saved Raoul that night in the lair, but Raoul has saved her a hundred times, including then. The idea of someone else wanting to hurt her, someone _else_ aiming to take her away, potentially, makes Christine lean down to capture Raoul’s lips again. She peppers kisses down Raoul’s neck, across her breasts and her stomach, her hand trailing slowly downward.

“You’re the most beautiful, gorgeous woman in the world,” Raoul mutters, splaying her legs in encouragement. “What did I did to…”

“Deserve me?” Christine finishes, pressing a kiss to Raoul’s inner thigh. “Plenty, my love.”

Her hand reaches the place it was aiming for, and Raoul whispers her name over and over and over again.

_Christine. Christine. Christine._

She says it like it’s sacred. Like it’s holy. And they’ve been together for quite a while now, but something’s changing between them, growing into something yet more as they face the past that brought them together again without falling apart. Christine tells Raoul she’s beautiful. That she’s smart. That she’s kind and talented, no matter how much parts of her may hurt. That she is no less for it. Finally finally _finally_ Raoul relaxes, giving in entirely to Christine’s touch. And here in the quiet where no one is watching them, they both say _I love you_ as Raoul comes undone.

Raoul playfully wrestles Christine onto her back when she catches her breath, their bodies pressed close as Raoul kisses her again, and the two of them move together until Christine gasps, all but melting into the pillows.

After, as Christine lays with her back pressed up against Raoul’s chest, she swears she will not let whoever this new ghost is win.

They will not take Raoul from her, and she will do whatever’s required to stop them.

Even if it means insisting upon help from a man she never wished to see again.


	6. With No Veil and No Lies Between Us

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A ghost returns to the opera house. The tension between Raoul and Erik reaches a fever-pitch as a clue is uncovered, and Christine issues an ultimatum to her old teacher. Truths come out, lies cement themselves, and somewhere deep into the night, a new song is born into the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical note: more mentions of savate in this chapter, which is basically French foot boxing that had origins in street-fighting.
> 
> Also just a warning for mentions of assault, as call-backs are made here to Don Juan and the Final Lair.

As fate would have it, Raoul has to meet with the Duc de Barrand on the same day she’s set to let the ex-opera ghost back into his old haunt.

She and Andre meet with the duc at a nearby café, going over some of the things they wish to accomplish at the opera—hiring the new proposed assistant ballet mistress, some renovations to the lighting, having a set number of tickets at a lower price, as previously discussed. The duc remains interested in becoming a patron—offering them an amount to begin with, to be given after the completion of Faust.

God, so much is depending on Faust. So much is depending on them figuring this all out before Faust. The duc’s patronage. Garnier’s validation of their venture. Everything. Though, a part of Raoul is relieved the duc didn’t offer the money right away. She would have had trouble taking it, with everything going on, and she won’t be known for lying to her patrons.

It’s dusk when she and Andre arrive at the opera, the sun sinking behind the buildings of Paris and casting everything in an eerie blood-orange. They didn’t want anyone recognizing Erik, after all, but she doesn’t like being in the opera when it’s empty at night regardless, and she especially doesn’t like it when she’ll be in the company of the man who is the reason why. Christine, Meg, and Madame Giry herself are at the side door they agreed upon, though Meg doesn’t seem deeply pleased by this. Erik and Ismaël come from the other direction just as Raoul and Andre approach.

“Andre,” Raoul says awkwardly. “This is Ismaël and…Erik.”

“Monsieur Andre.” Ismaël gives a slight bow and a smile, which seems to ease some of the tension out of Andre’s expression.

Erik only nods, his mask concealed by a wide-brimmed black hat, though he does turn to Raoul with a question.

“Where were you before this? Why are you wearing glasses?”

“Oh.” Raoul takes the reading spectacles off her head, slipping them into her pocket. “Andre and I had a meeting with a potential patron.”

Erik cocks an eyebrow. “Right before meeting with me? Bold. Money can’t wait, I suppose. Perhaps this person causing all the havoc is one of your wealthy friends, after all.”

“We are trying to get more money so that we can attempt to lower ticket prices for people who could not otherwise afford to come.” Raoul grits her teeth. “As to your hypothesis, it’s as good as any, I suppose. Now move, I need to unlock the door.”

Except when Raoul puts the key in the lock, there’s no click.

It’s already open.

“A promising beginning,” Erik mutters. “It seems we’ve found our culprit’s way in. Sloppy.”

Raoul gestures everyone else inside, going in last with Christine. The side-door leads into the grand foyer as opposed to the main grand hall, and it doesn’t slip past Raoul that this entire area is lined with chandeliers hanging above them, ominous in the dusky dark. She remembers kissing Christine here when they first returned, but that was with daylight streaming through the windows. When she walks through now after performances or rehearsals it’s teeming with people, overflowing with chatter and laughter, but today there’s not a sound, except for them. Not another body in this place. Nothing but shades and silence. Raoul feels like she hasn’t in ages.

Afraid of the opera house.

She turns on one of the gas lamps, which gives them some light, before facing the group. Christine’s close to her side, and Meg too, on the other. Madame Giry is staring at Meg. Ismaël is staring at Erik, and so is Andre, his face drawn. Erik, meanwhile, glances around, his gray eyes slits in the shadows. Raoul can’t forget those eyes because they haunt her dreams. They were so close as he put the noose around her neck, and there was no mercy. Not for her.

“Where to?” Ismaël asks, directing his question at Raoul.

“I…” Raoul’s heart races already, but she must keep herself in check. “I would like Erik to show us any passages he might know of. Hiding places. But first I think…” she glances at Christine, earning a nod of permission. “…I think we need to look in the dressing room. We found it unlocked recently. I want to see if there’s anything in there.”

Everyone agrees, and they all walk toward the backstage area, Raoul and Christine following behind the rest. Their footsteps echo in the empty space, the floor creaking when it changes to wood the deeper they go into the opera house, away from the grandeur of the entrance.

“In the event of you returning to rehearsal without this solved,” Erik says, surprising Raoul when he speaks. “You ought to have one of the hands you trust, without fail, up in the fly loft at all times. There are dark corners up there where a person can hide. I did, at least, until Joseph Buquet saw me. It’s how I broke the backdrop during the Hannibal rehearsal, among other things. Put more lights in, where possible.”

Raoul’s words tangle in her throat, unsure, exactly how to answer to the advice couched in casual mentions of violence.

“I…” Raoul tries. “Thank you.”

They come to rest in front of the door to the dressing room, and Christine takes Raoul’s hand.

It’s unlocked again, if shut.

The door, so rarely used, whines as it opens. Erik’s eyes flick to Christine, Raoul sees it, and for the third time, she lets everyone else in, first, leaving the door wide open.

“Search around,” Raoul says. “Clearly someone has been using this room.”

The gas lamp in here isn’t working, so Raoul lights a candle instead. The theater has some electric lighting now, but these areas, especially this untouched room, do not. The others start searching, but Christine hangs back, staying near the door and gazing around the room. Dust motes dance in the air as people disturb things that haven’t been touched in months—neither Raoul or Christine set foot in here again after that night in the lair, instructing the workers to simply lock it up.

And as Raoul looks down at the carpet, she sees a streak of old, faded brown.

Blood. Her blood. It must be.

A vase caked with dust rests on the vanity, old rose stems still inside and the petals long dead.

Ismaël distracts her from the pounding of her heart and the sweat beading at her forehead when he speaks, standing near the vanity.

“There’s a handprint here, disturbing the dust,” he says. He points to the mirror beyond. “And there too. Someone has been in here.”

This seems to strike a chord with Erik, who walks to the mirror without a word and gives it a great tug, except, it doesn’t really need one, because, on further examination, it’s already partway pulled back, just enough for a person to slip past. It makes a loud, unholy noise that grates against Raoul’s ears as Erik pulls it back further, and Christine moves even closer to Raoul’s side.

Raoul wishes they could both love this dressing room. She wishes they could only think of it as the place where they met again, but there are too many memories, for Christine especially. Raoul looks at the vanity and the dead roses, that fateful night appearing like a haze in her mind’s eye. Christine, turning around with that curious smile on her face. Herself, kneeling down in front of Christine’s chair, half in love again already. Both of them young, and only one of them yet afraid.

That would change.

Then Erik has the mirror moved enough to step into the dark, dank hallway beyond, leading toward the bowels of the opera. Erik pauses, then steps back inside with something in his hands.

Paper.

“There’s a little hidden compartment there in the wall where the stone has worn away,” Erik says in explanation. “I used to use it to communicate with Antoinette, long before any of you arrived.”

He puts the paper down on the vanity where Ismaël found the handprint, so Raoul and Christine are forced to step further inside. There’s just a single sheet with a few scribbled lines.

_The situation is slipping out of de Chagny’s hands. No one is allowed in the opera for two days, even though we have work to finish._

_She’s panicking._

It’s written in normal black ink instead of the alarming red, but the phrase _she’s panicking_ sears Raoul’s soul.

“Whoever was meant to pick this up hasn’t yet,” Ismaël studies the note, as if searching it for more clues. He frowns, turning toward Raoul and Christine. “This is at least two people. And one of them is decidedly part of the opera.”

Erik bows. “As I said previously.”

“So they’re trying to communicate with someone on the outside?” Andre asks.

“It would seem so,” Ismaël muses. “Though why this note is still here I’m not sure. We’re missing some piece of this, I’m only not sure what.”

“Two people,” Raoul mutters. “Perfect.”

Erik smirks, and it slides across his face with a darkly amused ease. “You must have made some people very angry, Mademoiselle de Chagny.”

Raoul wants to snap. She wants to shout, but Christine is close against her side, Christine believes in, at least somewhat, this man’s propensity to change, and at the least he hasn’t laid hands on her, yet, which is indicative or something. He’s here, helping, for a given meaning of the word, and so she keeps her voice even to try and give this man a chance, even if he isn’t really giving her one.

“Or,” she says. “There is one person behind this who has pulled people, or paid them, to assist him in this endeavor.”

“Him?” Madame Giry asks, though it’s in question more than challenge.

“I had been working off the assumption that it’s a man,” Raoul replies. “Though I could easily be wrong. The language in the letters was….” she steadfastly doesn’t look at Erik, she steadfastly doesn’t think of the snide, not-whispered comments of some of the young men of her social class, especially after the opera scandal, but also before. “…it was condescending in a way I’ve experienced from some men in the past.”

“Not to begin an argument,” Madame Giry answers. “But I know that Christine at least, was wondering if the culprit might be me, for a short while. We ought to keep our options open. Especially if this scheme involves more than one person.”

“I wonder why on earth she might have thought that?” Meg asks, a rare sarcasm dripping off her words.

“Leave the note where you found it, Erik,” Ismaël directs, averting any argument. “Otherwise they’ll know we’re onto them. Or at the least know we found their hiding space. Leave the door unlocked, too.”

Raoul nods, her heart pushing up into her throat. “Where to?”

“I want to explore some of the subterranean area, by the lake,” Erik says without hesitation. “To see if someone’s been making any kind of camp down there, or hiding anything. We can go this way, or down the longer route that the mob came through.”

Raoul shakes her head. “We blocked that way off. We only wanted one way down to the lake.”

“Fair enough,” Erik murmurs. “Well then. It’s this way.”

Raoul freezes, and she swears her feet are stuck to the floor. Christine tenses beside her, visibly.

Erik raises his eyebrows. “Afraid, de Chagny?”

“No,” Raoul says, immediately.

_Yes._

“Erik,” Christine warns. “Antagonizing Raoul is not the point of this, if you’ve forgotten.”

“Christine’s right, we’re not here to antagonize each other,” Madame Giry adds, earning a look of surprise from Meg. “Let’s go and get this part over with.”

Raoul meets Christine’s eyes, and she supposes they could let Ismaël and Erik go alone, but if there’s evidence down there, any shred, she wants to be there to see it. So even though her hands are shaking, even though Christine’s are shaking, they go. Erik leads the way with Ismaël close on his heels, Meg, Andre, and Madame Giry going after them.

Raoul and Christine go last, and they hold tight to each other’s hands.

At least here in here, they can have that.

Slow-moving dread sweeps over Raoul as they go _down down down_ the hallway. She never came down here when they were doing the work, trusting the men and trusting Andre, who was kind enough not to ask it of her. Memories of coming this way with Madame Giry that night overtake her mind, her heart racing in much the same way even as she reminds herself that she’s not in immediate danger.

Is she?

No.

Yes.

Perhaps.

The touch of Christine’s fingers anchors her to the world, but everything seems even more unreal as they reach the long, curving staircase, the steps slick and slippery beneath their feet. She remembers thinking about death as she walked into this damp, deadly hell, darkness obscuring everything. How she didn’t know if she would come back alive.

Then, they reach the bottom, the lake visible several feet away, and her chest tightens. She can’t breathe. No, she can. She can.

Right? Yes.

Why is she like this why is she like _this_? Philippe’s voice resounds in her head. Harsh. Irritated.

_It is not in your nature to pull back from anything._

And then later. Softer. Sorry.

_You are one hell of a brave woman, but that doesn’t mean what happened didn’t leave marks. And I…well I think you need to not feel so ashamed of that._

Christine’s words from two nights ago echo, too. Sweetly. Achingly so.

_You don’t deserve this, my love._

And then later, with spirit and determination coursing through her voice, her breath close and warm against Raoul’s skin.

_It’s all right if you hurt, sweetheart. It’s all right. You told me that before and I’m telling you now. Do you hear me?_

_Yes_ , Raoul said, half breathless as Christine eased the tension from her body. _I hear you._

_You’re so brave, Raoul. You’re so beautiful._ Christine put a lingering kiss on Raoul’s lips. _You’re so kind._

Raoul believed it, then. She wants to believe it now, but she feels like she’s dying down here in this place with her would-be murderer close at hand. She holds tight to Christine’s hand, reminding herself that they protect each other, that it’s not just her shielding Christine, but that old instinct, that instinct to throw herself at Erik no matter Christine’s protests, rises like a monster in her chest.

The color’s gone from Christine’s cheeks, but there’s a glint in her eyes, still, even as her spine stays ramrod straight. Raoul lets go of her hand, putting it her back instead, lightly. Carefully.

“It’s all right, I’m all right.” She leans in close, whispering the words. Whispering a lie.

She’s isn’t all right. But she is, technically. She’s not hurt. It’s not a lie. Nothing’s happening but the roar of her nightmares, the roar crashing down upon her, a high-pitched whistle like the wind in a bad storm sharp in her ear. 

Christine has memories of this place that Raoul doesn’t. That night, when Erik first brought her down.

“You’re safe.”

Raoul says those words against Christine’s ear, barely audible, and she hopes they aren’t lost.

They must not be, because Christine relaxes just a bit, glancing over at Raoul with a tight, tense smile. Erik moves away from the rest of them, going toward the curve of the stairs, his every step echoing. The damp air is close around Raoul’s body. Thick. Humid. She takes a deep breath, but it only gets her half the air she wants, though whether it’s because of the panic or because of her finicky lungs she doesn’t know.

“What are you looking for, Erik?” Ismaël asks.

Erik feels for something on the wall by the stairs, and that’s when Raoul sees a little latch, almost the same color as the dark stone.

“This,” Erik says, undoing the latch and tugging open a small door beneath the stairs.

They all step forward and in front of them is a little space under the staircase, a space mostly devoid of anything but a few candles, and even some old, musty blankets.

“I had forgotten about this,” Madame Giry whispers, surprising them.

“You knew?” Meg asks.

“I used to leave things, for Erik, when I first knew he was living across the lake, but before he…” she looks at him, unimpressed, and this seems to impress Meg. “…before he started extorting money.”

“There’s nothing here.”

A look of surprise passes across Erik’s face, or at least the part that isn’t covered by the now familiar white mask. Part of Raoul wonders why he doesn’t try something more flesh-colored, but then, she knows very little, nothing at all, really, about living with a deformity. She can imagine how cruel people must have been to him over it. It is not the same, but she knows how cruel some people can be to her, for own sin against society. But then, at least she isn’t alone. Now, it seems, neither is Erik.

She wonders how that will change things.

Ismaël tilts his head. “You expected there to be?”

“I…” Erik sounds downright befuddled. “I assumed whoever this is might have been storing things down here, or using this space, if they were trying to copy me, even if my old lair is blocked off.”

Erik looks at Raoul as he says that last part, and there’s a glint in his eyes, a glint of the ghost before he turns away, searching every little nook and cranny of this hallway on the edge of the lake with Ismaël at this heels.

The knot in Raoul’s chest tightens, her stomach heaves, and she steps away toward the lake. Christine follows, and Raoul studies their distorted reflections in the murky water.

“Are you all right?” Christine asks.

Raoul’s breath quickens. Her stomach hurts.

“I don’t know.”

“Are you all right?” Christine presses, gently.

“No.”

The admission makes Raoul’s voice crack.

Before she can do anything, say anything, there’s a step behind them, a hand on Christine’s shoulder.

“Where’s the boat?” is what Erik asks, but Raoul hears something else, she hears that _voice_ , that silky smooth, cold cruel merciless voice coming closer and closer and _closer._

_I’m here. I’m here. I’m here._

Raoul spins around and kicks forward with more power than she thought she possessed, her foot coming into hard contact with Erik’s leg. She hit higher than she aimed, the blow landing on Erik’s lower thigh as opposed to his kneecap, but it does the trick, anyway. It’s the _chasse bas_ kick Jules taught her when they first started her savate lessons, and one she knows best.

The opera ghost crashes to the ground.

Something whistles in Raoul’s ears again. High. Sharp. Overwhelming.

“Don’t you touch her,” she hears herself say, or maybe she’s only saying it in a dream.

Then, someone’s pulling on her skirt, then she’s on the ground, just like she was that night, but she puts her knee up before Erik can pin her, grabbing a fistful of his shirt in her hand. _His_ hand goes to her throat, not tight, but it’s there, and her entire body buzzes and his eyes gleam with murder and Christine is screaming. Meg is shouting. _Andre_ is shouting. Madame Giry is calling out Erik’s name in reprimand.

Raoul doesn’t have time to knee Erik in the stomach as his grip tightens just slightly, because then Christine’s screaming again, screaming Raoul’s name and running over, and something flickers in Erik’s eyes, something gentler, as Ismaël seizes him by the collar.

“What the devil, Erik,” he says, though he doesn’t shout.

Erik tries tugging out of his grasp, but in a half-hearted sort of way.

“Stop,” Ismaël commands.

Everything around Raoul sounds amplified. She shakes. She sweats. Her heart races and her stomach sloshes and then Christine is there, Christine is there, and Meg, too. And it isn’t that night, is it? No.

“We should go back upstairs,” Madame Giry says, shooting an angry glance at Erik. “Ismaël, you and Erik first. With Andre. Go.”

Ismaël obeys, finally letting go of Erik and ushering him up the stairs until they’re out of sight.

“Thank you.” Christine glances up at Madame Giry, smoothing back Raoul’s sweaty hair.

“I’ve helped Erik.” Madame Giry’s eyes flit toward the stairs. “But that does not mean I do not know the worst of him. Are you all right, Raoul?”

Raoul doesn’t have the strength in her to lie. Not even to Madame Giry, who lied to them. Not when it’s taking all her power not to vomit here in this haunted place.

She shakes her head.

“Are you hurt?” Meg asks, alarmed.

“No,” Raoul amends. “Not physically, I mean, I just….I need to…I need to sit, a while.”

“Meg and I will go first.” Madame Giry puts a careful hand on her daughter’s shoulder. “You and Christine follow when you’re ready.”

Raoul nods, wishing her blood didn’t feel so hot even as her skin feels cold.

“I’m sorry, Christine,” Raoul mumbles, resting her head in her hands and pulling her knees up toward her chest and trying to breathe. “When he touched you, when he was right behind us I just….I went back there.”

“I know,” Christine whispers. “I know, my love.”

They sit for ten minutes or so, Christine rubbing circles into Raoul’s back before they go upstairs, talking only intermittently on the long walk. They find Meg, Madame Giry, Andre, Ismaël, and Erik in the grand hall by the front door, which remains solidly locked. Night has well and truly fallen now, eerie pools of silver moonlight spilling in through the windows.

Raoul craves the sun. Her tired body and her hollowed-out mind desire wish and wish and _wish_ for the daylight, but that is hours from now.

“You’ve left a bruise, no doubt,” Erik complains as Raoul and Christine come in. “I ought to go right now.”

“What you’re going to do right now…” Christine’s voice goes higher again, as it usually does in her moments of anger. It’s sharper though, than Raoul’s ever heard. Like it could cut Erik in two. “…is speak with me. Alone. No arguments.”

“Christine,” Raoul tries, a spasm of panic in her stomach.

Christine turns around, clasping Raoul’s hand. “We’ll just be in your office. I’ll be fine. I promise you. Trust me.”

Raoul does. Of course she does. Christine kisses her hand and sits her down on the stairs next to Meg, who slips an arm around Raoul’s shoulders. Ismaël watches Erik with a wary eye, and so does Madame Giry. Andre goes backstage, looking for water for Raoul.

And Raoul watches the love of her life, her friend, her lover, her wife, her _hero_ , go alone to confront the man who once claimed to be an angel. The door shuts, and she’s gone. The door shuts, and the world melts, a little.

The door shuts, and it rattles Raoul’s bones. 

* * *

Christine shuts the door to the managers’ office quietly. She wants to slam it, but given Raoul and her state on the other side, she won’t.

She whips around toward Erik, keeping close to the door. “How could you do that? How could you even _think_ of putting your hand on her throat?”

“She kicked me,” Erik protests. “What was I meant to do, just let her? I didn’t intend to do it, I’m not interested in harming her.”

There’s….it’s not _exactly_ a lie, but something close to it, something just a shade away buried beneath his words.

“Are you lying to me?”

“About what?”

“About not being interested in harming her.”

“I’m not…” Erik stutters, and it sounds strange. “I’m not interested in it, but I have instincts. I’m trained to have them. Where did she learn to kick like that, anyway?” He sounds impressed despite himself, but it’s gone in a moment.

“She took savate lessons because of you, Erik. To protect herself. And me.” Christine runs her fingers through her hair, messing the updo entirely and making some of her curls fall loose. “God, what am I doing?”

“Going to have me arrested Mademoiselle Daae?”

Christine takes a deep, shuddering breath, tears springing to her eyes. “No. But if you lay a finger on Raoul again, I will. Don’t make me choose, Erik. You won’t like the result.”

“There wasn’t really a choice the first time.”

The statement spills out of Erik’s mouth without eloquence, his eyes glittering with something hard, something dangerous, even if the words carry the ring of a confession.

Somehow, she isn’t afraid of him. Not anymore. He’s lashing out, but he won’t harm her. Maybe she’s wrong, but she thinks she isn’t.

“What?”

“I was going to kill her.” Erik speaks softly, even as the words send sharp pangs through Christine’s chest. “Either way you chose, that night, until you changed my mind. That’s the truth. You staying might have granted her a quicker death had I remained resolved, but a death all the same. That’s the sort of man you’ve asked to help you. Know that, Christine, and think twice if you want to continue on with this. Perhaps I idealized you in my head, but you did the same thing.”

“We are not the same!” Christine shouts, surprising herself. “We were never the same.” She plants her feet, lowering her voice again. “And do you think I didn’t think of that? You think you’re so clever, always tricking the silly little girl, well I knew that might be a possibility, that night. It’s what I feared. That you would just take her from me anyway. She thought of it too. She had nightmares about it, so this isn’t new to us, Erik. You choosing to say it just proves you can never stop thinking of yourself.” She stops, her chest heaving. “Are you sorry? Or was that moment just that? A moment?”

Erik straightens. “I am sorry for hurting you. I am sincere in that.”

“But not sorry for hurting Raoul?”

“Christine.”

“Sit down.”

“Excuse me?”

“Sit _down_.”

Erik makes to sit in Raoul’s chair, behind Raoul’s desk, but Christine can’t bear it, so she directs him to Andre’s instead, giving him a little shove against the chest until he does as she asks.

“You think me a silly girl, and I…”

“I don’t,” Erik cuts in.

“Do _not_ interrupt me,” Christine snaps. “You, waltzing in here with this confession, this dark thing that you didn’t think, even once, that I might have already had a thousand nightmares about? How could you think I wouldn’t? You set me up that way, Erik. To expect the worst. Before Raoul ever came to the opera house, you trained me to expect your anger. In your lessons. If I was late. If you thought I didn’t work hard enough. If I dared argue with you. When I took your mask off, that day after you took me through the mirror.”

The memories of Erik’s words burn her. The way he shouted. The way he grabbed her. The way he smoothed the rage from his face when he turned back around. He could control it. He chose not to.

_You little prying Pandora! You little lying Delilah! You little viper!_

Erik grasps the desk until his knuckles pop white. “You shouldn’t have taken my mask off.”

“No.” Christine tries to stay calm, but she isn’t calm at all. “I shouldn’t have and I’m sorry for that, but you shouldn’t have reacted that way. I didn’t know, Erik. In those days, I told myself your anger was my fault. I told myself you would never let it spin out of control. That angels were due their celestial rage over human foibles, even if they were sent by my father, who never once raged at me. Then when Raoul arrived, I knew that wasn’t true anymore. I knew that night you killed Joseph Buquet that you might try and kill her. I knew you would try and kidnap me. I saw it coming. At first I thought, _if I can at least have Raoul for a little while,_ _before that happens, it will be worth it_. I was selfish, wasn’t I? Thinking like that when it could have hurt her. When I knew she wanted something that would last even though she said she would would be happy to just be in my life however I saw fit. She put her heart into my hands even though I feared I was living free on borrowed time. You pushed me into thinking that way. I see that now.”

“Christine.” Erik reaches out one hand.

Christine backs away, keeping to the other side of the desk. “Do not touch me. You’ve touched me enough times when I didn’t want it.”

Erik jolts, and he does look sorry. “I know. I know that. I’m sorry for it.”

“You should be sorry to me and to Raoul.”

Erik makes a face. “I assure you, I have no feelings of that nature toward that girl.”

“Say her name.”

“What?”

“Say her _name_.”

Erik grits his teeth. “I have no feelings of that nature toward _Raoul_.”

“Thank you.” Christine sucks in a breath. “And that doesn’t matter. You used it as a threat, didn’t you? Pushing against her. Putting your knee between her legs. Taunting her with it. Making her watch while you touched me in front of a crowd. Put your hands all over me. Do you know know it made us afraid to touch each other for months?”

Erik blinks, and there are tears in his eyes, now. “Christine, please.”

“No!” Christine shouts again, swiftly losing control of herself. “You are going to hear this.” She’s shaking, but she doesn’t care. “Every time I kissed Raoul, for weeks, I thought of you. You forced yourself into that part of my life, you made it so that all I could do without thinking of your hands on me was just hold her when she cried. The world already makes it hard enough for us to be together. You had to make it harder.” Christine runs her fingers through her curls again, not caring that they come almost entirely loose, the pins falling to the floor. “You spent all this time talking about how she defiled me, because you just wanted to possess me. My body is mine, Erik.” She stares him down. “Were you going to take if I didn’t give to you?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“No.”

Christine chokes back a sob, but Erik doesn’t reach out again.

“I was realizing things about myself,” she whispers. “Realizing that those feelings I had for Raoul when I was a girl were what I tried to tell myself they weren’t. That I could be in love with another woman as easily as I could a man, no matter what the world might think. Do you know what it felt like, Erik? To hear you call Raoul those names? Deviant. Harlot. You weren’t just saying those things about her, you were saying them about me.”

Erik swipes his hand through the air. “No. I was not.”

“So you just thought I was too infantile to make my own choices? That I could only be seduced, and not interested of my own free will? That was what you were telling me, with Don Juan.”

“I…” Erik averts his eyes. “I was jealous. To lose you to another man I could have seen coming but…”

Christine rests her hands on the desk. “I am not something to be won. And who I love or sleep with has nothing to do with your masculinity.” She pauses, catching her breath. “I am a different person because of the lessons you gave me. But I am also a different person because you treated me like a plaything.”

“I’m sorry, Christine. I am.”

“But you’re not sorry for what you did to Raoul. I’ll ask again.”

A pause. Too long of a pause.

“I’m sorry it hurt you.”

He’s hiding something. Some remorse he perhaps feels but won’t admit to her. She saw the way he looked at Raoul, that night. The way he flinched at her scream after he let her out of the noose.

“All right then,” Christine says. “Well you’re going to hear why you should be sorry for far more than that.”

She pulls out the chair behind Raoul’s desk, moving it around so it’s on the opposite side of Andre’s from Erik, where he’s backed against the wall and she is not, wanting to remain close to the door. He’s looking at her, and he doesn’t argue, for some reason. Perhaps it’s Ismaël’s voice in his head. Perhaps it’s her, finally making him listen. Either way, she’s going to make him hear her out.

“Raoul almost died, that night,” she begins.

“Christine,” Erik interrupts. “Antoinette has already told me about her recovery, you don’t need to…”

“Clearly she didn’t do it well enough or you would be sorrier than you are.” She cuts him off. “She wasn’t there every day and every night. I was. For a while, the doctor thought she might have to have surgery to help her breathe. She couldn’t eat solids for days and days. She coughed up blood. She wheezed—I could hear it rattling in her chest. She slept and slept and _slept_ and I was afraid she would slip away in her dreams.” She lets her tears fall, because there’s no point in hiding them. “She ran a fever, from the knife wound you gave her. She…”

“Christine.” Erik’s voice sounds hoarse, hoarse like Raoul’s was for months. The way it gets hoarse now, if she laughs too loud or talks too much. “Please.”

Christine shoves one of Raoul’s books toward Erik, making him pay attention. “No pleases. You will listen to me. You will listen to what you wrought. She was in bed for weeks, Erik. It took months for her to move around normally. Her lungs get irritated more easily now, she gets hoarse, these small markers that remain even if she’s largely healthy again. It’s a miracle it wasn’t worse than that. It’s a miracle she can do things like savate without losing her breath entirely. You left scars on her, scars she still looks at in the mirror, sometimes, however faded they may be. I’ve…” she loses her own voice, for a moment. “Seeing her in pain like that broke my heart.”

Erik sets his jaw, and he’s keeping something back, she knows he is. “I’m sorry for that but…she’s fine now. She’s…if she can kick me like that….”

“It’s not just her body you hurt,” Christine interrupts, heat, rage rushing through her. “You left marks on my mind, on my soul, yes, but you did the same to her. Nightmares where she wakes up sweating and screaming. Panic. Sleeplessness. It ebbs and it flows but it’s there. Some piece of it always will be. She’s resilient and she’s brave but you wounded her, Erik. You wounded her. And if you can’t swear you won’t touch her again, if you can’t swear you’ll be at the least polite, then we’re done, here, whatever it costs me with this new threat. And I don’t want to see you again. Ever.”

Erik’s eyes widen like he’s realizing something. “I’m sorry, Christine. I am. For…” he heaves a great sigh, like saying this pains him. “…for hurting her. Raoul.”

“Then why can’t you just say so?” Christine presses. “Why can’t you act like you are? You… That night, I saw it in your eyes, that remorse for what you did to us. Not just me. Raoul too. Why can’t you just speak to it now instead of being cruel to her?”

Erik turns away, gazing out through the window and into the night. “Because I…when I let her…Raoul down that night, I saw myself in the mirror. I saw a man who would hurt a young woman. Who wanted to. Who relished it.”

Christine winces. She tightens her grip on the edge of the desk.

“Go now, Christine, if you don’t wish to try and forget what I’m about to say. Tell me to leave. End this.”

“No.”

That makes Erik look at her again.

“I wanted to kill Raoul that night. Hurt her. Break her. Take her from you,” Erik continues, and there’s shame in his voice. “And then, when you changed my mind, when I saw what I had done to you I…I looked over, and saw what I had done to her. What I, a man twice her age, was willing to do to a young woman, who, no matter how she fought, couldn’t defeat me, not with my training in the many ways to take someone’s life. I had always admired your voice, Christine, but I heard it most clearly that night, when it wasn’t set against a song. I heard it most clearly when I finally, finally heard how much you loved her. And what you were willing to do to save her even though I’d stacked the game against you both. And I…when Antoinette helped me to Daroga’s home, I thought I would die, and be all right with it. If not for them, I would have. So I don’t…I don’t want to go back there to…”

“Your feelings?” Christine cuts in. “Your regret?”

“Yes.”

“You have to face them to move forward,” she says. “Raoul taught me that, about my grief with my father. My grief over you, even. And I remind her, when she needs it. Now, I’m telling you.”

A tiny fraction of what might be a smile slides across Erik’s lips. “You really love her, don’t you?”

“I do.”

“She loves you.”

Not a question, really, but a statement. Christine answers, anyway.

“Yes. She has for a long time.”

Silence hangs between them. Ghosts. Specters of the lies that made them what they were, and the truths that made the illusion come crashing down. Hazy images of what they could have been, teacher, and student, and the unknown future of this place that brought them together.

“I can’t…we can’t sort all of this in one evening,” Christine says, getting up from her chair. “I need to get Raoul, and get her home. Are you still interested in helping us? Say so if not. We can’t waste time on a maybe.”

“Yes,” Erik says. “I am.”

Christine turns to go, but Erik’s voice summons her back. That voice that overtook her life. That voice that came from the shadows and offered yet more darkness encased in false ribbons of light.

“Christine?”

She looks over her shoulder, waiting.

“I am sorry and I…” he struggles here, sounding a touch grumpy, and the humanity of it is a relief. “…I will be polite to Raoul, in the future. I shall try. You go. I will not make…I will not make Raoul see me again until she wishes it.”

She steps back over to the desk, resting her hand on top of his for a fleeting moment before stepping back out into the hall.

Raoul gets up immediately, and Ismaël looks nervous.

“Erik just needs a minute,” she clarifies. “Raoul and Meg and I are going home.”

Meg gets up, clasping Christine’s hand. “I’m going to go home with Maman, for now,” she says. “I don’t want to cause you any more suspicion from Philippe and I…well I need to speak with her, besides.”

Despite Madame’s kindness today, Christine still isn’t sure. She wishes she could be, but it will take time, for Madame’s transgressions to heal.

“I’ll be all right,” Meg assures her, clearly reading Christine’s face. “Go home. Rest.”

Christine kisses her cheek, offering Madame Giry a half-smile before Meg embraces Raoul. Christine watches them go, wondering, exactly, how that trust will be repaired. They bid Andre farewell, and he promises to have the list of the company who didn’t return when the opera house re-opened to them in a day or two, saying that little Simone will bring them, as she often picks up messages for him in the mornings.

“You should go out through the side door where we came in, lest anyone see,” Christine tells Ismaël. “Raoul and I will go out the front. And I…” she reaches out, pressing his hand. “Thank you. For your help.”

“Send a note, when you wish to meet again,” Ismaël tells her, casting a glance over at Raoul as well. “We should not wait long. And take care of yourselves.”

Christine gives him a real smile, before taking Raoul out the front door and watching through the window as Erik comes out of the manager’s office, walking with Ismaël in the direction of the side entrance. She sees them come out across the street, disappearing into the dark.

Raoul takes Christine by the arm before they can get into the carriage where Marcel waits, pulling her into a long, tight, embrace. So used to refraining even from unsuspicious affection in the street like this, refraining from anything but linked arms, Christine can’t be bothered, right now, to hide anything. She rests her head against Raoul’s shoulder and for a moment, Paris falls away, and it’s just them here beneath the stars, the dim light of the lamps making the night glow.

“Let’s go home,” Christine whispers. “Let’s go home, Raoul.”

* * *

Ismaël doesn’t speak to him on the walk home.

Ismaël doesn’t speak to him as they come in the door.

Ismaël doesn’t speak to him when he starts making tea, letting Darius sleep.

Erik leans against the wall with his arms crossed, peering at his friend.

“What’s the matter, Daroga?”

The spoon in Ismaël’s hand clatters onto the counter. “Are you very seriously asking me that, Erik?”

“I am very seriously asking, yes.”

Ismaël turns around, abandoning his tea. “You could have easily hurt Raoul de Chagny today.”

Erik, raw from his conversation with Christine, relents, if only a little. “You stopped me.”

“You need to stop yourself!”

Ismaël’s shout echoes through the room, shocking in it’s rarity, and heard more over the past few days than ever before.

“I…” Erik stumbles, again, and he isn’t used to it. His voice, even when just speaking, usually does not betray him. “I did stop. I stopped when I registered Christine screaming.”

Ismaël shakes his head. “That was too long.”

“She did kick me, Daroga, I didn’t attack her for nothing.”

Ismaël takes his hat off with a sigh. “Had you taken one look at her instead of reacting with what you call your instincts, you would have seen the fear in her eyes. I saw it. I saw the panic, the way she was transported back to that night.”

Erik crosses his arms over his chest, feeling a touch, like he might cry. “Well I’m not as perfect as you, I suppose.”

“Dammit, Erik,” Ismaël says. “If you had shoved her, or some such, out of instinct, that would have made sense. I doubt even she would have begrudged you that. But you grabbed her throat, you pulled her down to the ground, you must know the impact of that. Even in your immediate rage. We cannot control our emotions—we can control our reactions to them.”

“She didn’t,” Erik grumbles.

“She wasn’t acting on pure emotion, Erik,” Ismaël says solemnly.

“Fear is an emotion, Daroga.”

“It wasn’t just fear,” Ismaël argues. “You want to discuss instinct? That was instinct. To protect herself. She wasn’t here, today. She was back there. She went back to that night. Did you not notice that she wasn’t allowing you to ever walk behind her? You have your own nightmares that you do not wish to return to, so I know you can imagine the feeling. You are _her_ nightmare.”

Those words hit Erik in the chest.

“You have to do better,” Ismaël says. “I let you live here with me so you could try and do better.”

Erik’s breath….it _catches_ in his chest in a way it hasn’t since that night Christine left the lair, because he feels something coming, the threat of his only friend perhaps preparing to leave him, too.

“Are you kicking me out?”

The words of a child. Vulnerable. Weak. He cannot afford to be weak, he’s never been able to afford it.

“No.” Ismaël’s softer now, but he won’t meet Erik’s eyes. “But I am telling you that if you cannot be…”

“I already told Christine I would be polite to de Chagny from now on,” Erik interrupts. “I will try, in any case.”

“Christine is giving you a third chance you don’t deserve,” Ismaël replies sharply. “I thought having you help them would be good for you. For them too. To put this behind you and help them solve this. I thought you would want to atone for the hell you put them through. Perhaps I should have sent them home the moment you walked in this door the other night.”

“Ismaël…”

“If you cannot control yourself, you must step away from this,” Ismaël insists, finally looking at Erik. “Those young women have been through enough and are going through yet more now. I thought I could manage you, but you are not a child and I cannot spend my life trying to curb your behavior. You must do so yourself. It would do you no favors for me to say otherwise, and I remain your friend, so I am telling you the truth.”

“I am trying…I shall…I shall endeavor to try harder.”

Ismaël nods, brushing one hand across Erik’s shoulder. “I’m going to bed. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Erik watches him go before heading to his own chamber. He lights a candle once he’s inside, preferring them, still, to the gas lamps he lived without for so many years down in the depths of the opera house. His fingers, itch, once again, for the piano, they long to create something rather than destroy or hurt, but it’s too late, and he can’t disturb Ismaël, tonight.

He has a melody in his head. It calls back to the one he wrote for Christine so long ago—he wonders what she did with it—but it’s different, too. More fleshed out, like it needed something else all along. It’s different from anything that’s played in his head before, a sweet, soft thing in minor key with notes of jubilance threaded through. Minor key is not always destined to sound sad, and this tune has just the right mix of melancholy and joy for…

An image of Christine forms in his head. An image of her as she was today, staring him down even if she was still a little afraid, mostly of the ghosts between them. The memories of the pain he inflicted on her. He sees the life in her eyes. Christine is more beautiful now than she ever was, not trapped in grief. The grief he tried to keep her trapped in.

And he sees…

He sees…

He sees that girl. He sees…Raoul. Her name sears his skin, because if he says her name, then she has to matter, he has to care about the ways in which he tried to shatter her, body and soul. He’s spent many months grieving Christine, both for the loss of her, and the magnitude of his abuse against her, the devil he allowed himself to become while proclaiming he was heaven sent.

But Raoul…

He’s only tried to hate Raoul. He’s only tried to keep to his promise to leave her be and not think of her as anything other than the girl who won Christine, except…except well it wasn’t her winning anything, was it? No. She was there long before he ever heard Christine’s voice. She is who Christine wants, regardless.

She was willing to die for Christine. He was only willing to kill for her.

He sees her now. He sees the way her hand went to Christine’s back while they were down by the lake, saying something Erik couldn’t hear, something that made Christine relax. She sees the way she smiled at Christine the other day in the sitting room, so much in that tiny gesture. She is, he realizes, more than a pretty face from a wealthy family.

She is different than he imagined, and he sees her. He sees them both.

He sees them and hears that melody in his head even if part of him doesn’t want to, and he has no choice but to put it to paper. The notes come and they come and they come, and they don’t stop until late into the night. 

* * *

Raoul takes a deep breath as she stands outside the front door of her own house with Christine. She’s not shaking, anymore. She’s not sweating, but she knows she must be pale. Her hand goes to her throat, and there’s no mark there, she asked Christine and Erik didn’t squeeze tight, really, but she feels his hand still.

Maybe she is a fool, but they have more knowledge because of Erik and Ismaël than they did yesterday. A tiny bit, but more nonetheless.

Two people. At least two.

Someone inside. Someone out.

“We went to supper with Meg after my meeting with the duc,” Raoul says, looking over at Christine. “We can’t say we went to the theater, he’ll ask us too much about what we saw.” She stops, deciding upon her lie and hating it. “We went to the Louvre for a while, then a late supper with Meg. It’s half past ten, that’s not an absurd story. Is it?”

Christine shakes her head. “No.”

“I hate lying to him,” Raoul whispers.

“I know. Hopefully soon we won’t have to, anymore.”

Raoul winces. “Am I a terrible person for it?”

“No,” Christine repeats. “I…he would stop us. If it were just you trying to save him worry, I would insist you tell him but…he would stop us. And right now, Ismaël and Erik are the only ones who can help us without endangering our positions in the opera. The police will…”

“…make it get out,” Raoul finishes. “Yes. It’s not as if they listened to us before, besides. We will summon them only if we must.”

They go inside, met at the door by Helene the housekeeper, who tells them Philippe is in his study. Raoul and Christine go upstairs to the end of the long hallway on the opposite side of their suite. A tired-looking Madeline sees them and asks if they need anything, and Christine, before casting a glance back at Raoul, goes with her so nothing seems strange, though after today, after the memories they faced, Raoul is disinclined to be apart.

“Hello,” Philippe says with a quizzical expression when Raoul knocks on the open door. “I was beginning to wonder where you were, you didn’t say you’d be out late. Is Christine all right?”

“Fine.” Raoul nods. “Madeline’s just helping her dress for bed. I had my meeting with the Duc de Barrand,” she continues, stepping further inside as Philippe gestures at her.

She sits down in the chair opposite her brother, the leather worn from use. She used to sit in this chair as a girl when they came to stay in Paris from the country, resting her arms on the desk and watching with fascination as Philippe tended to paperwork or correspondence. Her legs were never long enough to reach the floor when this was her father’s study, but they were when it became Philippe’s, and he would warmly chide her for throwing her gangly legs over the arm of the chair, or worse, onto the desk itself.

“How was it?”

“How was what?”

Philippe quirks an eyebrow. “Your meeting?”

“Oh, yes, sorry I’m just a bit tired. It went well. He says he will sign-on after Faust.”

“After?”

Raoul shrugs. “I think he wants one more success and Garnier’s validation before he puts ink to paper. So, hopefully, we shall settle this new ghost business within the next week so we can attend to rehearsal and opening night will only be a bit delayed.”

Philippe folds his hands, getting that look in his eye. That stubborn look. “And you’re sure you don’t want the police?”

“I can’t, Philippe,” she says. “Not unless we must. If this gets out, they’ll take the opera from Andre and from me. Christine will be able to stay and sing, most likely, but she might be shifted aside for someone else. That’s a danger.”

Philippe nods, though he doesn’t commit verbally. “So you think the rogue will just give up once he doesn’t receive the money?”

“That’s my hope, yes. Andre’s too.”

“Hmm.” Philippe looks at the clock. “Where were you, this evening?”

“We went to the Louvre a while, and then to dinner with Meg, who went home to her mother, so we’ll need to take the things she left to her, at some point.”

A flicker of irritation takes root in Philippe’s face. “Raoul. Are you lying to me?”

The question hits Raoul in the gut, but she keeps steady. “No, Philippe.”

She doesn’t say _I would never lie to you_. She can’t bear it.

“Well, please do let me know when you won’t be coming home for supper, next time, on an evening when I’m not out? I might have met friends, had I known you wouldn’t be home.”

“Yes, all right,” Raoul says, not liking the _something_ she hears in her brother’s voice, but she can’t put a name to it. “I’m sorry, don’t feel like you need to structure your social life around me. I should have sent a note.”

“No need to be sorry.” Philippe takes her hand, briefly, giving it a light squeeze. “You and Christine have just been out a good deal, the past few days. You might want to be careful, if you told the papers she was ill.”

“Yes,” Raoul leans back in the chair, trying not to avert her eyes. “Yes that’s true.”

“I just worry about you.” Philippe leans back too, surveying her, watching her, and it scrapes against her skin.

“I don’t need you to worry, Philippe,” she snaps, harsher than she means. “I’m fine.”

Philippe looks hurt, and he sets his jaw. “It’s my job to worry about you, Raoul. I’m your brother. Your parent in many respects. And there is something afoot, even if not, as of yet, as grave as before.”

Raoul wants to say something back, but she can’t, she can’t because she’s never lied to Philippe like this. And by lying to Philippe, she’s lying to Juliette, too.

“I know.” Raoul speaks softly, now, getting up from her chair. “I’m sorry, I’m only tired. I’ll see you in the morning? We can drink coffee and linger a while.”

Philippe smiles. “I’d like that. Do you want some of your tea, before you sleep? You look a bit drawn.”

“That’s all right.” Raoul returns the smile, feeling so tired tonight, that she doesn’t think she’ll need any help, for as much as the tea does help, generally.

She presses a kiss to Philippe’s cheek before half-running down the hall to the solace and safety of her suite. Christine, riled from her conversation with Erik, sits against Raoul’s chest a while, and Raoul reads poetry to her in the quiet of their bedroom.

“You’re brave, you know?” Raoul whispers once the lights are out and they’re laying down. “Taking him on like that. I heard some of what you said.”

Christine smiles in the dark, her eyes fluttering closed. “He will know what you mean to me,” she says. “Even if I have to shout it at him.” She pauses, reaching for Raoul’s hand beneath the covers. “And you’re brave too. For telling me you weren’t all right when I asked, down there.”

“Progress,” Raoul mumbles with a soft, tired smile, utter exhaustion crashing over her, and for once, sleep comes easy.


	7. That Ghostly Person Whom None of Us Knew

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More notes appear. Raoul and Andre begin interviewing people within the opera at Ismael's urging, trying to come upon a suspect as the game turns dangerous. Philippe grows anxious. Raoul and Erik talk--sort of. Christine worries over their lies to the de Chagnys, and Meg has some much needed good news.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical notes: according to my research, 20,000 francs is about what an opera manager would make in a year, and a year's worth of getting that a month would amount to about a month's worth of opera ticket sales. So! More money than it seems.

“Raoul, can you sit still, perhaps? You’re making me nervous.”

Raoul’s head jerks up at Celine’s words, her coffee nearly sloshing over the edge of her cup.

“Sorry,” she says, shaking her head as she ceases the bouncing of her leg. “Just thinking.”

“And you’ve had too much coffee, this morning,” Philippe mumbles from his place next to Christine on the settee.

Raoul chooses to ignore that, picking up half of a croissant from the table between her chair and Celine’s. She wants to be at Ismaël’s, but she’s waiting on Andre’s notes to arrive, and she doesn’t know if she and Christine can even get there today, besides, not with Philippe acting suspicious and already making plans for a supper out, this evening. She takes a bite of her croissant before reaching out toward Celine’s little girl Charlotte, who is playing on the rug in front of them. She taps her nose, earning a bright-eyed giggle in return.

“I’m sorry Nicolas couldn’t join us,” Raoul says, inquiring after Celine’s husband instead of answering to to Philippe’s worry. “He’s busy today?”

“He had a meeting with our banker,” she replies. “About…well honestly I can’t recall what about, as Charlotte started screeching about something and quite drowned him out. He said before I left that you all and Juliette and Francois should come for dinner, soon.”

Despite the rampant gossip of the society set, Raoul does have friends—true ones—among them. Her friend Clara, and then Celine and her husband, most of all. Raoul didn’t exactly expect Nicolas to like her, because why would he, after the rumors about her and Celine, and knowing, even without being told directly about the nature of their relationship, what it entailed, but he’s never been anything but kind to her. 

“So these notes you’ve been getting,” Celine asks, taking a sip of her own coffee. “You’re certain that they aren’t from the opera ghost?”

“We don’t know anything for certain,” Raoul answers, sticking to what she’s been saying for several days around anyone who doesn’t know what she’s up to. “I was certain at first that it was. It could be, but…it feels different.”

“Christine?” Celine asks.

Christine puts her cup down, folding her hands in her lap. “I agree, it feels different. The focus on money. The _lack_ of focus on me or even much about the direction of the opera. It’s strange.”

“You should listen for gossip of anyone having money trouble,” Celine says, and it sounds like only half a joke. “I wouldn’t put extorting you past some of the people we know. And 20,000 is no small sum.”

It’s not. 20,000 is what she and Andre take home in a year for their managerial work, though she’s put some of that back into the opera, given she hasn’t need for the money, though she likes earning her own. She wonders, not for the first time, what Erik did with all they money he extorted, given that what he must have gleaned from Monsieur Lefevre each year was a month’s worth of the opera’s ticket sales.

“Except it must be someone in the opera, or who knows it well,” Philippe cuts in, furrowing his brow. “Though why I couldn’t begin to guess, given Raoul and Andre have created what seems to be a happy working environment. I’m still not entirely convinced it isn’t that damned ghost.”

Celine frowns, putting her coffee cup down and rubbing at her palm with her thumb in a way that indicates her concern. “I do hope both of you will be careful.” She casts a glance at Raoul. “I’d not like to see you hurt again like that.”

“I know.” Raoul offers a tight smile to Celine.

“You both know the situation better than me, of course,” Celine answers. “But I just don’t know who else would be after the two of you in such a way.”

This line of conversation is interrupted—much to Raoul’s relief—by Lucien, who comes in from the entrance hall with someone else in tow.

“Simone!” Christine exclaims, getting up to greet her. “What brings you, dear?”

Simone looks around the sitting room with wide eyes, like she’s never seen something so nice in her life, before focusing back on Christine. “I brought Monsieur Andre’s notes, for Mademoiselle de Chagny.”

“Notes?” Philippe asks.

Raoul gestures Simone toward her with an easy smile, taking the envelope from her hands and offering her a croissant.

“Andre made a list of company members who didn’t return after Don Juan,” Raoul tells him, leaving out the fact that Ismaël told her to make these lists. “And we’re going to take that, the list of current members, and the list I’m making of new hires to try and sort out if there’s anyone we should interview. Anyone who sticks out.”

Philippe gazes at her as he takes the mail Lucien also brought in. “You didn’t tell me that last night.”

Raoul looks at her brother, hating hating _hating_ herself for lying. “I forgot. We’re hoping that if the fiend doesn’t give up when we’re set to start rehearsal, we might have a list of people to look to.”

Simone, still lingering by Raoul’s elbow with a croissant in her hand, is led to chair by Christine, who smooths a stray hair from the girl’s face, answered with a shy _thank you, Miss Christine._

“Celine, this is Simone,” Raoul says. “Who runs messages for us at the opera and helps us with some things that need doing. She’s quite a good ballerina, according to Madame Giry.”

Mentioning Madame Giry feels strange, but it is at least, the thing she currently can say aloud _about_ Madame Giry.

“Lovely.” Celine leans a little closer. “Do you have any siblings, Simone? That’s my little girl there,” she continues, her thumb brushing against her baby’s back. “And I think when she can talk, she’ll be begging me for a sister.”

Simone straightens in her chair. “I’d love a sister, but it’s just me, and my mother.”

Simone is pale, Raoul thinks, dark smudges under her eyes like she hasn’t slept well. Raoul looks up at Christine only to find her also looking at Simone. Any rumination on what might be upsetting the young girl gets pushed aside as Philippe curses.

“What, Philippe?” Raoul asks, immediately.

“There’s another note,” he says, showing them a single sheet of paper. “Mixed in here with the mail. I thought it looked strange with only your name on the front and nothing else.”

He hands it over to Raoul, who reads it quickly aloud, her heart slamming against her chest.

This person is sending notes to their house. Just like Erik. Except it _isn’t_ Erik, but that crossed boundary feels familiar. She didn’t know how afraid she she should have been when that very first letter showed up on her doorstep the morning after Hannibal, but she recalls clearly the way it overtook her when the last one arrived, weeks after the lair. The image of it there, with the black-lined envelope and the familiar handwriting, making her head spin.

_Mademoiselle de Chagny,_

_As leaving notes at the opera has not resulted in your understanding the seriousness of the matter, I thought I would call on you at home._

_My demands remain unmet, so therefore I am increasing them so as to increase your urgency in responding._

_The price is now 25,000 francs to be left in the unlocked dressing room as previously indicated, immediately._

_If this does not occur, whose to say word won’t spread, in Paris, of this new scandal, and we wouldn’t want that, now would we?_

_If this does not occur, regret will be the only thing you’ll be thinking of._

_I remain, your obedient servant,_

_O.G._

“Dammit!” Raoul exclaims, before looking at Simone. “I’m sorry, Simone. My apologies.”

“That’s all right, Mademoiselle de Chagny,” Simone says, twisting her fingers. “I should go, I don’t want to be a bother.”

“Nonsense,” Christine cuts in, getting up again and putting a hand on Simone’s back while she makes eye contact with Celine. “You should at least have something more to eat for your trouble.”

Celine, taking Christine’s meaning, picks Charlotte up from the floor, the little girl’s giggle odd in the tense air. “Come with me dear, I’m familiar with the de Chagny kitchen, and I’m sure Victor has more where those pastries came from.”

Raoul slips a few francs into Simone’s hand as she passes by, keeping hold of the girl’s fingers a moment. “Are you all right, Simone?”

Simone hesitates. “I’m fine Mademoiselle de Chagny, only…” she pauses again. “Well my mother has been ill is all. A cough, lately. So I haven’t been sleeping well.”

“Oh,” Raoul says softly, pushing aside her fear over the note even as Philippe’s nerves overtake the whole room, his posture stiff against the settee. “I’m so sorry to hear that. Take anything you like to her from the kitchen. Has she seen a doctor?”

Simone nods, though she doesn’t offer anything else.

“Well if she needs another,” Raoul continues, giving Simone a smile. “Come tell me at once, and we’ll send over our doctor.” She peers into Simone’s eyes, pressing her skinny fingers with warmth. “He saved my life.”

Simone nods again, and there might be tears in her eyes as she puts a kiss to Raoul’s cheek before dashing away toward the kitchen with Celine. This leaves Raoul, Christine, and Philippe alone with the silence.

And the note.

Christine comes over to Raoul’s chair, perching on the arm and taking the letter, reading it silently to herself.

“Raoul.” Philippe’s words slice into the air. Into Raoul’s heart for how determined they sound. “I think it’s time for the police.”

“No,” Raoul says, outright and immediate, but her voice gives way, a hairline fracture splitting it down the middle. “We can’t. Not yet.” 

“You are being stubborn,” Philippe argues. “What are we to do ourselves, if this turns violent?”

“It hasn’t.”

“If it’s that fiend…” Rage burbles up into Philippe’s voice. “Then it will.”

Christine hands the letter back to Philippe, and while she can’t tell the full truth, Raoul can tell she’s still determined to let Philippe know one thing.

“This isn’t Erik,” she says, calm as she looks Philippe in the eye. “This is about money. That is the objective. There is not one mention of me in this letter. They want to pretend to be the opera ghost, but they’re failing, in that regard.”

“Then who is it?”

Philippe asks the question in a whisper, like he can’t believe it could be anyone else, and everything about it sounds fragile, a strange and abrupt switch from a moment ago. Perhaps it’s because he’s asking Christine. Christine, who he adores and who sometimes it seems, he fears he may break.

He doesn’t know Christine’s will, Raoul, supposes, as well as she does. A thing made of steel when she’s made up her mind, rising to the surface more often now, when she doesn’t have so much to be afraid of. Someone to be afraid of. Philippe sees Christine as she was in the aftermath of the final lair, and not during, when she stared down a ghost and the terror he wrought. Christine is kind. Christine is sweet. But Christine is stubborn, too. Stubborn like Raoul, just in her own way.

Christine shakes her head. “I don’t know.”

“Philippe,” Raoul tries, leaning forward toward her brother. “Give me more time. We still have a little over a week before I called to start rehearsal again. Give me at least that.”

“Raoul…”

“The police did not stop the violence last time,” Raoul insists, though she’s gentle with her brother, remembering Juliette’s words to her. “They would not listen to me at first. They could not stop what happened in the lair. They barely took us seriously at all when they asked us questions. And the truth is even if we’d wanted the ghost arrested, they were going to give up that case whether we wanted them to or not.”

Philippe doesn’t answer, right away, so Raoul kisses Christine’s hand before going over to the settee and sitting next to her brother. She puts a hand on his back and he tenses, which nearly makes her draw away.

“I’m supposed to be taking care of you,” Philippe mutters, almost like he didn’t mean to speak. “Both of you. You aren’t supposed to be taking care of me.”

Philippe looks at her, and the tears in his eyes aren’t an almost, they’re a certainty. The truth threatens to spill past Raoul’s lips.

_The opera ghost and his friend are helping us. It really, truly, isn’t him._

Then she could at least relieve her brother of that burden. But she knows that gleam in his eye, even with the tears. She knows it as well as she knows her own stubborn heart.

He’s not ready to hear it.

“I’m all right, Philippe.” She repeats the chorus of the song she’s sung a thousand times since that night, and sometimes, it’s true. Often, in the past year, real, true, happiness mixed in with long, sleepless nights and both of those things making up life after surviving a nightmare. She thinks of yesterday, and how she finally said _no_ , when Christine asked, how she admitted she wasn’t all right and how that lifted such a weight off her chest. The weight returns now, and it aches.

“You’re not all right, Raoul,” Philippe says, as if those words are an incontrovertible statement, and not something that’s far more complicated. “You’ve been pale, these past few days. Nervous. Both of you have.”

“Well, I don’t like the situation,” Raoul clarifies. “I don’t want this to be happening, but I beg of you Philippe, let us wait on the Surete. If they know, all of Paris will know, eventually. And then god knows what will happen, with the opera.” She stops, her throat tightening as she glances at Christine with a smile. “We’ve worked so hard for what we’ve achieved. Let me see if we can outsmart this wretch, first.”

She wills her hand to stop shaking. She wills Philippe not to notice.

But she can’t. And he does.

Yet somehow, he agrees. She’s only not sure how long that agreement will last. 

* * *

Good lord, Raoul has a headache.

It pounds and pulses against her skull, and she rubs her temples with her thumb and forefinger, hoping it might ease the throb.

“I’m only saying, Raoul,” Paul the chief stagehand says, sitting opposite Raoul and Andre in the managers’ office. “That it’s a bit offensive you’re focusing on my hands. It could just as easily be one of the singers. It was us, who lost the most when the opera ghost was here before, and I came back, anyway. Convinced others to come back. Didn’t you say you found a note in the seamstresses’ work room? I don’t see them here.”

Raoul doesn’t want to argue about who lost what while Erik wreaked havoc across the opera house during his reign of terror, though as far as lives snuffed out, she certainly can’t argue that point.

“We’re not just interviewing the hands, Paul, I swear to you,” she replies. “We interviewed several of the tenors this morning, and even a few of the returning sopranos. We need not interview the ballet corps, as it’s highly unlikely one of them is responsible. I’m not sure yet about the seamstresses—I feel certain this must be a man though I’ve been encouraged to keep my thoughts open. Your men have access to the flies, and that second incident with the doll, the broken scenery…you can’t deny it’s damning.”

“No,” Paul mutters, crossing his arms over his chest. “But you’re also putting wedges between the old hands and the new, who you aren’t interrogating. Pierre, Jacques, Adrien, I haven’t seen, but I have seen nearly ten others who came back here under promises of better work.”

“I’m not interrogating any…” Raoul takes deep breath. “I’m sorry. I truly am. We’re just trying to sort out who on earth this could be. It’s not meant as an insult.”

“It obvious who it is!” Paul exclaims. “That damn ghost, back again. Who else could it be?”

“It’s not him.” Raoul speaks quickly, too quickly, though it’s not as if Paul could guess what she’s hiding.

“Word had it back when this started that you stopped the police investigation against that bastard who killed two of my own men. I questioned it then, but then you made a good offer, got this place back on it’s feet, treated everyone well, but now it looks like he’s back and I know Christine’s your sweetheart and that’s fine by me and not my business and I haven’t ever heard a prettier voice, but I can’t help but think that you let it go because of her and now…”

“All right,” Andre cuts in, keeping steady. “That’s rather enough about that.”

Heat floods Raoul’s cheeks, and Paul looks at least a bit chastened, twisting his hat in his hands.

“I’m sorry, Raoul,” he says, glancing up. “I don’t mean anything by it, but if you could just tell me anything to let me know you’re trying, and why haven’t called in the police, it would go a long way.”

Raoul swallows back the it’s obvious _I’m trying_ she wants to say.

“The police were already letting go of the investigation before,” she tells him, Andre nodding at her side. “They weren’t listening to me before Don Juan, which makes me hesitant to call them in now. That, and if word gets out, well…who knows if any of us will be in our current positions, if that happens.” She pauses, lowering her voice. “This next part you must swear to keep to yourself. Do I have your word?”

Paul nods.

“We found a note behind the mirror in Christine’s old dressing room,” Raoul continues. “A note which indicates that someone in this opera house is taking information to someone on the outside. Could be someone who worked here before, possibly. We’re trying to sort things out, narrow it down. The letters are…they’re different than before. It’s why Andre and I think it’s not him.”

Paul gives in then, putting his hat back on as he gets up to go. “I’m sorry about what I said earlier. But just know that…well know that you need to be careful, splitting people up like this. It makes us suspicious of each other, or people will think you’re playing favorites, pushing people who have been here longer out for people who suit you more.”

Raoul stares at him. “I wouldn’t do that. I haven’t.”

Paul raises his hands. “I know that. I’m just saying people talk, and theater people are a skittish sort. Rumors fly. Let me know if I can answer anymore questions.”

Raoul and Andre thank him, and then he’s gone.

Raoul slumps in her chair. Ten stagehands and a handful of singers questioned, and nothing, really, has led to suspicion of any one of them They all knew things that anyone could know—the 20,000 francs, the note, the signature of O.G. They referred to the past incident as only people who experienced Erik could, never calling him _the Phantom_ or any such thing, but always _the opera ghost_. The notes, though different, are so steeped in the mythos of the last round with a specter, that’s it’s hard to believe it could be someone who wasn’t here, the first time. If there’s two of them, at least one of them must have been.

That, at least, was Ismaël’s thought when he put forth this strategy.

“We’ll sort it out,” Andre assures her, though it rings a little hollow.

“We may as well go find the others,” Raoul says, giving him a smile nonetheless.

Christine, Ismaël, Erik, Meg, and Madame Giry are waiting in Christine’s dressing room and Raoul, nervous about having left Christine with Erik for more than two hours without being there, is anxious about returning to her.

“How did it go?” Ismaël asks as soon as they step inside.

Raoul gives a great sigh. “Not well. Our chief stagehand is frustrated with us, talking about how splitting the company up like this will cause suspicion, and rumors.”

“The rumors we can tolerate,” Madame Giry says. “There are always rumors, even in the best run opera house.”

Meg, sitting next to her mother but not too near, tilts her head as if thinking about the truth of that, and doesn’t disagree. They spoke, apparently, the other evening. Or well, Meg spoke, and Madame Giry listened, at least a bit, apologizing for keeping Meg as good as hostage, but they had not, entirely, repaired things, or dug into the older wounds so newly revealed.

“True,” Christine adds. “But the suspicion, the rifts between people here…that is something less tolerable. “

“It will be worse if this continues, for everyone,” Ismaël says gently. “I only feel that the idea of it being someone who was here before is the best lead, at the moment. Some of the things in the notes were available for public consumption, yes, but they also speak to someone who knew things more intimately. Someone who knew enough of the fears of the people who experienced getting these notes the first time to be able to mimic them to the point where at first, you did consider Erik. It would be difficult for someone new. I could be wrong, but I feel strongly about it.”

“If there’s two people,” Raoul ponders. “Could the one in the opera be new and the one pulling strings from the outside be someone who didn’t return? I just…we have a few more interviews in a half hour, but nothing seemed suspicious. And I…the more Andre and I speak with people the more sure I feel that whoever within the opera might not be as attached to this place. They all seem to feel as if their home is being invaded.” Her eyes flick over to Erik. “Again.”

Ismaël taps his chin, nodding. “You have a point. We ought to go over the list of those who did not return, especially who might be angry about it.”

“Didn’t you mention there was a girl, running messages for you?” Erik asks, speaking, really, for the first time all day. “Perhaps she’s playing a part in this we don’t realize.”

Raoul arches an eyebrow. “She’s twelve.”

Erik shrugs. “Twelve-year-olds are capable of subterfuge.”

“What would the motive be?” Ismaël asks. “This reeks of motive.”

“And,” Christine adds. “The broken scenery, the doll, a small girl isn’t capable of all that.”

There’s a long, resounding pause.

“Well perhaps it’s three people,” Erik says.

“Three!” Raoul exclaims, throwing her hands up in the air before resting them on her head, fingers interlocked as she paces across the lush carpet. “Three people now.”

“It could be,” Ismaël answers. “But if the interviews of current employees who returned aren’t turning up ideas, we ought to move on. We need to figure out who is pulling the strings because it will reveal everything else. If these next interviews don’t offer clues, we ought to go over the list of people who did not return. Andre, you and I can go over those here while Raoul continues talking with people, winnow it down.”

“They’ll wonder where Andre is,” Raoul points out, not wanting to argue with Ismaël, but it’s true.

“You could tell them you hired a private investigator, rather than the police?” Madame Giry suggests. “It’s not wrong, Ismaël and Erik essentially are that.”

“No. “Exhaustion sweeps through Raoul’s body, exhaustion from the lies. The secrets. She’s never been good at them. Christine is better at secrets, but Christine is better because of everything with Erik, because of grief, and Raoul doesn’t like putting her back into that. “If I tell them that then it could get to my brother, and then I’ll have to lie to him again. He’ll ask questions, want to meet this person.”

“Meg and Madame and I can help you, Ismaël,” Christine offers, shooting a smile at Raoul. “We knew everyone, largely.”

She looks at Madame Giry as if in challenge, as if daring her to say _no_ , but the ballet mistress agrees, and Ismaël puts a hand on Raoul’s shoulder.

“My apologies. I didn’t mean to suggest something that would make this harder. I know it must be difficult, with your family.”

“No, that’s all right.” Raoul shakes her head. “You’re helping me out of the goodness of your heart. I owe you my thanks.”

Ismaël glances back at Erik, who looks at him mildly. Too mildly, like something happened between them, though Raoul doesn’t know what. She puts a kiss on Christine’s cheek, and under the promise of coffee from Andre, goes back to the office for one last set of interviews.

She’s only not sure what they’ll amount to. 

* * *

Two hours later, Erik finds himself standing alone in the center of the grand hall. The sun’s vanished, leaving nothing but shadow and moonlight and the dim glow of the turned-down lamps. He lifts one hand, raising it toward the faint shimmer of the chandelier high, high above, and he thinks of another chandelier, the one in the theater that he sent crashing down.

Meg left a half hour ago, met at the door by a nervous looking young man. One of the tenors and her beau, Antoinette said. Erik slipped away from her, Christine, and Ismaël from their place in Christine’s new dressing room, busy as they were discussing something.

He can’t really believe that any of them let him out of their sight, but he hasn’t said much, today, so perhaps that helped.

He hasn’t entirely forgotten how to be a ghost. Being a ghost is like a second skin. An instinct. He could never forget.

He certainly feels like one, here in the soothing dark of the empty opera house. Old parts of him burn against his skin. Old memories. Old desires. Old temptations and old anger. He turns away from the windows, studying the the elaborate marble staircase, the staircase he walked down the night of the Masquerade, dressed in dripping red.

That, he considers, was the first time he met de Chagny properly. Before, it was just spying. Looking on her when she didn’t know he was there. A whisper in her ear. A shadow in the corner of her eye. A breath making the hair rise on the back of her neck.

A note in bloody ink.

And it’s her voice, now, that draws him out of the past. Her voice uttering a weary, worn-out _dammit_ from the office set off to the side of the grand hall. He has a penchant for remembering voices, and even if it was never set to song, he can’t forget hers, and the way it defied his own. The way it took the power his held over Christine and made it disintegrate until nothing was left but dust. He watched it happen, that day in the graveyard, as Christine fought his voice off, and then de Chagny rushed in, calling her _darling_ and giving her the courage she needed to throw him off entirely, all without singing a single note.

Erik walks toward the office, pausing in the doorway and leaning against the frame, watching Raoul, for a moment, before she notices him. She has the winnowed down list of people who didn’t return after the events of Don Juan, and she’s bending over it now, her reading glasses slipping down her nose. She’s pulled the pins out of her hair, the long, sandy-gold strands falling nearly down to her waist, though she stops to brush some of it out of her face, the golden bracelet on her arm catching the light. A slow tension crawls up from her hands to her neck, Erik sees it in the way her posture straightens, her fingers clenching as if she senses him before she sees him. She jolts when she looks up, the color draining from her face.

Erik remains where he is. A sarcastic remark fights to burst past his lips, but he swallows it back.

“I’m not here to threaten you,” Erik says, and there’s something like gentleness in it. Gruff, but gentle all the same. For him, at least. “As long as you vow not to kick me again.”

Raoul blinks. “I don’t want to kick you.”

Erik arches an eyebrow. “Don’t you?”

It seems as though Raoul might laugh, but she cuts herself off, gazing at him over the rims of her reading spectacles.

“A little.”

“You did leave a bruise,” Erik tells her. “Commendable. Not many people can say they have.”

He stops, studying her again. The way her pulse thrums against the hollow of her throat, visible because she’s undone the top two buttons on her shirt, her cravat tossed upon the desk. Sweat beads at her hairline, the autumnal air outside too cool to cause such a thing, and she hasn’t lit a fire. He looks at the things on her desk: files, a decanter with amber liquid off to the side, a cane that is no ordinary cane, he imagines, and a piece of paper with notes scribbled across, like she might have had a melody in her head.

_Do you compose?_ he wants to ask, but doesn’t. She’s not ready for that. He’s not ready.

He remembers Ismaël’s words, which reflected everything Christine said to him just the other day in this same room.

_You are her nightmare._

Not so long ago, he would have relished that. Part of him still does, not so deep down, where the opera ghost he was still lives. But the part of him that’s closer to the surface, feels regret. For Christine’s sake, but also….

“You are trying very hard to keep this opera house afloat,” Erik continues, taking two steps inside the office. “You worry that the famed Paris Opera will shut it’s doors? Surely there is someone waiting in the wings at one of the other institutions, at the Opera Comique or elsewhere, ready to jump at a chance to run this place.”

“I’m sure there are,” Raoul says, something like steel in her voice, that defiance he’s associated with her since the start. “But they don’t love this place like I do. Like Andre does. Like Christine and Monsieur Reyer and Meg and Carlotta and Piangi and everyone here does. Who knows what will happen to the people already here, should they toss Andre and I out? The people who work here are happy. They’re well taken care of, with wages, and we are trying to open our doors to people who have not truly been able to afford to come, before. If they had told us no at the start, it would have been the grief of a missed opportunity. Now it would be the grief of losing something else, entirely.”

“A family.” Erik speaks without really intending to, the words not chosen by him, exactly, but coming out naturally.

Raoul nods, before looking away from him. “You may guess that I am not, exactly, terribly at home anymore in the circles I grew up in. I have my friends there, and I go, for the sake of my siblings, my brother in particular, to their parties. I do not feel at home as I do inside these walls.” She does chuckle now, dark amusement in her voice, mixed with the youth she still is, really. “To think I once feared this place so. At night…” she gazes around at the glimmers of silver coming in through the window. “…well at night sometimes I still do.” She stops again, her eyes darting out toward the doorway. “Besides all of that, if they push me out, there’s a good chance they’ll force Christine out, too, no matter how much Paris may adore her. That adoration can be fickle, and she deserves to be on the stage.” Her voice softens here, trembling with the weight of her love. “I would do anything to see her remain so.”

There’s a brightness in her blue eyes when she says this, and that brightness strikes Erik. It strikes him because he saw it that night in the lair as he tightened the noose that final time. No matter how much pain she was in, no matter how much agony, that brightness remained. The brightness kept alive by a love of Christine Daae, even as Raoul’s very life was slowly, tortuously, fading away.

“You are proud of her.”

Raoul meets his eyes again, sitting straight. “Yes. Very. I knew the first time I heard her voice when I was nine-years-old, that she could be famous, if only the world would be quiet, and listen. And the more her father taught me to love music, to play the violin, the more I knew what magic was in her voice. Because that magic was in her.”

Erik’s spent so much time swearing that this girl couldn’t be right for Christine, not just because she was a girl, but because she couldn’t understand that part of Christine he felt only he knew.

The music.

He was wrong, yet again, wasn’t he?

“You knew Gustave Daae well?”

Raoul narrows her eyes at this, as if suspicious of his motive when so many of his crimes revolved around tarnishing the name of a man he never met, but she answers earnestly. “I did. Better than my own father, at least it seems like that, sometimes. My brother has always been…” she stops, as if yet unwilling to share particulars about her family with him. “Gustave Daae was one of the kindest men I ever knew. The memory of him helped get me through that night with you.”

Raoul’s father is dead, Erik knows, because the brother whose arm he broke has the title, though he doesn’t know about her mother. He doesn’t know much about her other siblings, he’s only vaguely aware there’s more than one. Raoul’s words about the night in the lair trigger another memory, a memory of the words _go to Philippe and Juliette_ uttered as a desperate cry more than anything else. He didn’t think much of it at the time, overcome by his own mania and his own guilt swiftly rising to the surface.

He decides he’ll dare another question.

“That night,” Erik says, and Raoul tenses again. “You told Christine to go to Philippe and Juliette. Is that your sister? Or your mother?”

“My older sister, I have two,” Raoul’s words curl up tight. “My mother died when I was born.”

Erik didn’t know _that_. 

“And you’re the youngest?”

Raoul furrows her eyebrows, a strange look, on someone so young and pretty. “Yes. Why?”

Erik raises his hands. “Just a question, mademoiselle.”

It’s all she’ll offer him and for once, he doesn’t push the boundary.

He steps further into the office, sitting down in the chair when Raoul doesn’t protest. She’s still tense, he can still see her pulse racing, but there’s not that alarm in her eyes, that panic swelling and swelling and swelling until she was nearly outside herself.

“May I see the list?” he asks.

Raoul slides it across to him, taking care that their hands don’t touch. “They narrowed it down to the few who did not return on…less than good terms, I suppose. Largely orchestra members.”

Erik runs his finger down the page, recognizing every name because he knew everyone, when he snuck through these halls. He made it his business to do so.

“You had auditions for returning to the orchestra?”

“We did. There’s more turnover among them than the singers or the ballet corps. Always people angling to audition, always people taking new positions elsewhere in Paris. So there were a few who wanted their old position back, and didn’t receive it.”

Erik nearly smiles. “And perhaps a violinist angry that you were playing in their place?”

Raoul’s lips twitch. “I only play with our second, Bernard is busy. So I didn’t take the place, exactly. Though people have been angry for pettier reasons, I suppose.”

“Well,” Erik says. “I can tell you that it isn’t Sebastien DuFord, the old bassoon player. He couldn’t play the bassoon, let alone have a scheme in him. I did say he needed replacing. I was wrong about a great deal, but not about that. I don’t think he knew how to tune his own instrument.”

Raoul laughs again, and it sounds genuine, devoid of the bitterness of her earlier chuckle.

“What are you laughing at?”

That voice Erik knows, the way there’s music in it even when there’s no song.

“The old bassoon player, Sebastien,” Raoul tells Christine, everything in her expression going soft as she looks at her.

It breaks Erik’s heart anew, seeing them. Watching them up close in this new way, when neither are as afraid of him as before. They forget he’s there, for a moment, Christine tutting and brushing Raoul’s loose hair behind her ear, the ring she wears on her right hand clacking a little against Raoul’s reading spectacles. Raoul melts, the tension fades away, and she grins as bright as daylight. It breaks his heart, but it tells him something else, too. It tells him that he did the right thing, that night in the lair. Not just because he couldn’t bear, then, to break Christine’s heart, even if it meant shattering his own, but because the souls of these two girls match, don’t they? Not two halves of one whole, but two wholes that make a life. A world. A world full of dreams and summer and light that he sought to take away. That he darkened, no matter how sorry he may be.

He left smears of shadow across their golden canvass, and he cannot take it back.

He can only try to help, now.

Christine’s looking at him, Raoul’s fingers held loosely in her own, and she’s smiling at him, and Erik could drown in that smile, except then there’s a noise, a footstep outside the window. Raoul hears it too, she jolts to attention, and Christine can only say _Raoul, what?_ before something crashes through the window, before there’s a great and magnificent shatter of glass, shards flying everywhere, all over the office as Raoul dives from the chair, pressing Christine close to the floor. Erik rushes to the window, but there’s only the sight of an undiscernible shape running away—he can only tell it is, by the cut of the clothes at least, a man. Someone’s running past the office too, it’s Ismaël and Antoinette, who must have heard the noise as they approached. Ismaël dashes outside, presumably to ask if anyone saw the culprit, but Erik only has eyes for the thing on the floor. The thing that broke the window.

A single brick, with a note attached.

Raoul and Christine get up from the floor, and there’s a shallow cut on Christine’s forearm and glass in Raoul’s hair. Raoul makes a noise of pain as she pulls a small shard out from near her collarbone, tiny droplets of blood coming away with it and smearing the glass red. Erik, further away from the window and unharmed, picks up the brick and unties the note before unfolding the paper and reading aloud.

_Now the price is 30,000 francs._

_Give me that, or next time, there will be more than just some broken glass._

_I warned you._

_O.G._

* * *

They don’t tell Philippe about the brick. They arrived home last night while he was still out—thankfully—both wearing dressing gowns over their nightdresses to cover the cuts on Raoul collarbone and Christine’s arm, respectively.

They’re home, the next morning, though without Philippe, who went Christine knows not where, exactly, only muttering something about a business errand about some of their land holdings. Juliette has come to see them, though without the children or Francois, so it’s just the three of them, and Christine feels compelled to tell her, compelled to tell her what happened, everything, but that would mean pulling her into their lies to Philippe, and Raoul, she knows, can’t bear it, to set them against one another. To even ask it.

“Estelle’s set come around two o’clock tomorrow for her lesson, if that’s all right, Christine,” Juliette’s saying.

“Perfectly,” Christine replies, thinking, privately, that she’d forgotten about the lesson, so she’ll have to find some time this evening to prepare something.

She hates lying to Juliette perhaps more than she hates lying to Philippe. Juliette, who is like the older sister she never had, who catches the small things, always, that signal her discomfort. It was especially true in the early days of their return to Paris, when Christine was first attending parties with the society set, and would, inevitably, be separated from Raoul or Celine or Clara, and Juliette was there, usually, to help. She remembers one dinner party they had here at home, the first Philippe hosted since everything at the opera, and the way the drunken shouts of a few men discussing politics made her jump. How they took her back there, and Juliette gently held her elbow, leading her upstairs before going to get Raoul.

But Juliette will tell Philippe if they tell her, and Philippe isn’t ready to hear. Juliette is inclined, often, to take Raoul’s part when she has any small tiff with Philippe—not a common thing, until recently—but this isn’t the same. Philippe and Juliette are like parents to Raoul, as well as siblings, and sometimes, as older siblings do, they see her as a child, and not the adult she is.

And this is a sort of situation where a parent might intervene.

“She’s so enjoying her lessons with you,” Juliette continues. “Though she has also been asking me if she might take those savate lessons you do, Raoul.”

“Oh lord.” Raoul laughs, sounding like herself again. “I shall tell her that I might teach her a little violin, if she likes, to go along with her piano and singing. Or some fencing, if you’d allow it. I think Estelle has the spirit for it.”

A half-smile slides across Juliette’s face, and she presses a fond kiss to Raoul’s cheek. “I might, though I prefer the music lessons, I must say. Your fencing lessons always made me nervous. Those blades.”

“With a blunt on the tip so as to entirely avoid injury,” Raoul argues, pressing her sister’s hand. “No harm done except soreness or a bruise. Though I haven’t fenced in a while.”

“You’ve been to busy learning how to break a kneecap.”

Raoul laughs again, though it rings with a dissonant air, because she’s used the skill so recently and can’t say so.

“A useful skill, you can’t deny, Juliette.”

“I cannot, _ma petite_ ,” Juliette says, something wistful in her voice. “I cannot.”

There’s a knock on the door, and one of the servants answers it, though Christine doesn’t know who it might be, as they aren’t expecting anyone. She’s more than pleased to see Meg step into the sitting room.

“Hello!” Meg says brightly. “I don’t mean to disturb you.”

“You’re never a bother, Meg.” Christine notices that one of Meg’s hands is folded over the other and is that….

“Of course not,” Raoul adds, not having caught onto Meg’s strange posture. “Come sit, we’re just chatting with Juliette.”

“Hello, Meg dear,” Juliette says, fondness glimmering in her eyes, having developed an affection for Meg while she stayed with them by the sea last year. Meg is easy to love, Christine thinks, a smile tugging at the corner of her lips. If not for Meg, those years in the opera house would have been terribly lonely even with all the people about. Without Meg, and before Raoul, there might have been nothing but rehearsals and the thrall of Erik’s voice.

She still can’t forget the image she stumbled upon yesterday, nearly lost in the crash of the glass through the window, of Raoul and Erik together in the managers’ office. Her heart went to her throat, at least until she heard Raoul laughing, even if she looked a little pale.

Perhaps Erik did listen to her, after all.

“I have news,” Meg says, her warm, cheerful voice pulling Christine back to the present. She holds out her hand, and there’s a diamond ring there, a simple one, but Christine has always preferred those. “Laurent proposed to me, last evening. I know there’s so much going on, with the opera, but he said that just meant we shouldn’t wait, and I agreed.”

“Meg!” Christine exclaims, forgetting, momentarily, everything they’re going through. “Oh, I’m so pleased!”

“Are you?” Meg asks, clasping Christine’s hands with tears in her eyes, and they might be seventeen again, whispering gossip behind their hands in the halls of the opera house. “I know there’s so much happening, but I do love Laurent so, timing be damned.”

“Of course,” Christine answers, pressing a kiss to Meg’s cheek. “I’m delighted.”

Meg throws her arms around Christine, her pleased laughter tickling Christine’s ear.

“It’s wonderful,” Raoul says, grinning as Christine and Meg come apart. “To have good news right now. Congratulations, my dear friend.”

Meg all but leaps over to Raoul, who’s just stood up from the settee, launching her arms around Raoul’s neck. Raoul laughs again, an _oof_ escaping her lips as she returns the embrace.

“I hope you’ll consider us for your dress shopping,” Juliette adds, a twinkle in her eye. “I know that would be a grand time.”

“I wouldn’t consider anyone else!” Meg clasps her hands together. “I know I’ll be in the best of hands. I’ll be so pleased to be in my own home soon, and not my mother’s.”

Christine feels the merry mood shift, abruptly, as Juliette looks at Meg a little too long. The words would be nothing, to someone else. They’re not nothing to Juliette.

“I hope everything’s all right with you and your mother?” she asks.

“Oh…” Meg stumbles a little, before smiling again. “Yes, it’s just you know, I’m ready to be out on my own, with Laurent. My mother’s taste in decoration is terribly somber, you see. You can likely guess from all the black she wears.”

Juliette doesn’t question further, and Meg turns the talk to wedding plans for the next half hour or so, but when Christine meets Raoul’s eye, they both know one thing.

It’s not just Philippe watching them, now.

Juliette is, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The reference Christine makes toward Juliette helping her at a party is due to a fic by the lovely 4beit on Tumblr, who wrote a few wonderful one-shots in this verse, which I recommend checking out!


	8. For the Sake of Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Raoul receives a letter from the government as tensions rise with a frustrated, worried Philippe, who is acting strangely. Erik attempts to atone. Raoul and Christine hold tight to one another as their world shifts, and in the midst of it all, a little girl needs their help.

It’s late in the morning when Raoul hears a knock at the door.

Or at least, she assumes it’s late from how bright it is outside, sunlight flooding in through the window past the curtains she forgot to close. She mumbles something at whoever is at the door, and they open it, stepping inside.

“Sorry to wake you,” Madeline says as Raoul sits up, only half aware as she swings her legs over the side of the bed. “But this note was dropped off and Philippe said you should know.”

Christine sits up, too, brushing her wild curls out of her face and bidding Madeline good morning. Madeline smiles, but she looks worried, too, Raoul can tell, because this isn’t the first morning they’ve slept past their usual hour recently. Sometimes Raoul can’t fall asleep until late into the night, and Christine, the opposite and more prone to sleeping when she’s anxious, isn’t awake to, well. Wake her.

“Who is it from?” Raoul asks.

“Someone from the government, I think.”

“Dammit,” Raoul mutters. “Would you mind bringing us up some coffee, Madeline? I’m sure I’ll be needing it.”

“I can…” Madeline twists her fingers. “Though I think you’re expected, downstairs. I believe Eloise will be here in a short while.”

“All right.” Raoul gives a sigh. She’s not sure she’s been expected in this way since she was a girl, but she’d rather not argue, not when she’s already lying to her siblings and hating it. “We just need a moment to read this, and then we’ll dress. Thank you.”

Madeline complies, and Raoul pulls the letter opener out of her drawer—the same same one she used to open Erik’s first letter—to open this one.

“Who is it from?” Christine asks, coming over to sit next to Raoul on the edge of their bed.

“Monsieur Allard,” Raoul’s eyes scan over the single sheet of paper, and she slides on her reading spectacles. “One of the culture ministers.”

“Oh yes,” Christine murmurs. “I remember.”

They both re member because there’s no way they could not, given the man was less than pleased at the idea of Raoul and Andre managing the opera house, when places like the Théâtre Lyrique have long closed, leaving largely the Opera Comique and their own Paris Opera to do more and more, and he thought them unqualified. Raoul recalls the meeting, and the way Philippe said _the name de Chagny has been without scandal since the 14 th century_, and the way Monsieur Allard said _until now._ But given people’s fears, and given that at least if Raoul and Andre failed they could say said _I told you so,_ they allowed it.

_Dear Mademoiselle de Chagny,_

_I hope you will pass this along to Monsieur Andre, when you see him next. I received your note about delaying rehearsals due to a head cold making its way through the company, and that Mademoiselle Daae was unwell. As the two weeks will be up in just a few days, I hope you’ll let me know should rehearsals for Faust continue to be delayed any longer. If so, I believe we shall need to meet, to discuss why._

_I also have a few new composers in mind, should Faust go well, whose work might suit to mount brand-new productions, and a breath of fresh air for the opera._

_I do hope there hasn’t been any trouble, and that you shall let me know if there is._

_Regards,_

_Louis Allard_

“Dammit,” Raoul says, for what feels like the thousandth time in days. “I was hoping this wouldn’t happen. If we don’t figure this out in five days then…”

“You have to meet with them…” Christine finishes. “And tell them. I fear lying would make it worse.”

Raoul nods. “Unless I can come up with a legitimate reason as to why we’re delaying. But I don’t…I’m already tangled up in all these falsehoods, and I confess I’m not adept at it.”

Ghosts shimmer in Christine’s eyes. Ghosts of all the lies Erik forced her into, the lies she told even Raoul, in the beginning, though she did not keep to them for long. They were more omissions, than anything, desperation to keep Raoul safe, but Raoul knows how living under these burdens makes her feel.

“Perhaps they will not be so harsh if they find out something is going on,” Raoul continues, taking Christine’s hand in hers. “Perhaps I am overly worried.”

She doesn’t entirely believe it because despite all evidence to the contrary, rumors swirled around Paris after Don Juan, before, rumors about how Raoul de Chagny and Christine Daae were in league with a madman. Rumors that Raoul was a fool being tricked by a seductive opera singer, who was scheming with a ghost. Rumors that Philippe was fighting with his _deviant_ sister over Christine. There were many variations, and none of them good. None of them true. Raoul told the entire, painful truth to the police—well, most of it, she didn’t tell them that she and Christine were a couple—and still, they looked at her side-long.

No one was there but the three of them, after all, to witness exactly what happened, and apparently a girl with a lacerated neck and damaged lungs, and a soprano who was unwillingly touched on stage in front of a crowd, was not proof enough.

It was only proof enough to condemn them.

Christine squeezes Raoul’s hand. “Perhaps. Still, we should try and get to Ismaël ’s today, and see what the next steps might be.”

 _If_ they can get there.

Eloise is already present when Raoul and Christine come downstairs, sitting at the breakfast table with Philippe.

“There the two of you are!” Philippe exclaims, sounding a touch over jolly. “Up late, were you?”

“A bit,” Raoul answers vaguely, sitting down next to her sister as Christine sits next to Philippe. “Hello, Eloise.”

Eloise puts a warm kiss on Raoul’s cheek, and it’s a hundred times better, between them, than it used to be, though Raoul still doesn’t know what to say, sometimes.

“Tea, Raoul?” Philippe asks, and the mere words grate Raoul’s nerves.

“No,” she replies, picking up the silver coffee pot. “Coffee is perfect, thank you.”

Philippe stiffens at the coolness in Raoul’s voice, and doesn’t say anything more.

“Philippe said you had a letter, Raoul?” Eloise asks. “From someone in the government?”

Raoul tries a smile, and it’s odd, to be less annoyed with Eloise than her brother, who she hardly ever even argued with, before recently.

“From Monsieur Allard, one of the culture ministers.” Raoul pours herself coffee, watching the steam rise up from the cup and taking in the welcome scent before passing the pot across to Christine. “He apparently wants to meet if we delay rehearsal any more than original two weeks.”

“And you still don’t have any idea who it might be? Eloise peers at Raoul over the edge of her cup. “This new O.G. I mean?”

“We are wondering if there might be more than one person involved,” Raoul says. “Perhaps someone on the outside, someone on the inside.”

She’s about to say more, though not too much more, because she doesn’t have a plan for days from now, she doesn’t even know if she’ll call rehearsal back, but then she realizes Philippe’s not really listening, his eyes darting to Christine’s arm as she pours herself coffee. The sleeve of her jacket has ridden up, revealing the bandaged cut on her arm. It’s Raoul’s jacket, really, a dark blue military looking piece with black buttons, refashioned from a riding habit. The sleeves are longer than any of Christine’s, but looser, too, and now…

_Dammit._

“What is that, Christine?” Philippe asks, his tone brooking no argument. “That cut on your arm? And you’re wearing Raoul’s jacket, aren’t you? I thought it was.”

Raoul’s never heard Philippe use a tone like that with Christine, and she wants to tell him to stop it, but she meets Christine’s eye, and there’s no point in keeping this lie, now, when they have so many others.

“Someone threw a brick through the window of the managers’ office two nights ago.” Christine looks Philippe in the eye, straight-backed, and this seems to surprise him, because she doesn’t say it sweetly. She says it with steel in her voice. “And another note with a higher price. We didn’t want to worry you with it.”

Philippe laughs, but it’s a sharp, bitter thing, and he rounds on Raoul. “When she says _we_ , I assume she means _you_.”

Raoul puts the pastry she’d only take a few bites of down on her plate. “Christine and I make decisions together, because I, unlike someone else in this room, don’t boss people about.”

Philippe glares at her, his eyes narrowed in a way that makes Raoul’s bones turn to ice. In a way that makes her feel cold all over.

“I’m going to the police. This is enough.”

Raoul stands up, careful not to rattle the table and alarm Christine with the noise. “You gave me your word, Philippe. Your word that we would delay that until the two weeks were over. That was the deal.”

Red floods into Philippe’s face, his moustache twitching. “You are not my banker, Raoul. You are not someone with whom I am doing business. You are my sister. We don’t make _deals_.”

Raoul’s knuckles pop white as her hands clench the edge of the table. “So that makes it all right break promises?”

“It does when you lie to me.”

“I lied precisely because I was afraid you would go back on your word.”

Philippe backs down, but only slightly. “Are you hurt, then?”

“Just a small cut on my collarbone. I’m all right.”

“You’re all right,” Philippe mutters, shaking his head. “Lying to me again. I will keep my word, but rest assured, Raoul, that I will be doing as I say in five days’ time unless this clears up.”

Raoul can’t even drink the rest of her coffee, not for how her stomach churns. They didn’t set a time to meet Ismaël, but she wants to go there, now. Strange, to want to be away from her beloved brother, and in the house where the opera ghost lives. The man that haunted her nightmares, and probably always will, in some regard.

“We’re going out to find a gift for Meg and Laurent.” Raoul puts her cup down, refusing to look at her brother.

“You’re just going out into the world after someone threw a brick through a window to hurt you?” Philippe asks, and there’s grief in his voice, grief that breaks her heart, but she knows, now, that she was right to keep Erik from him.

“We have a friend who wants to celebrate with us,” she says, and it isn’t untrue—they are due to meet Meg and Laurent for supper.

Christine gets up, coming over to Raoul’s side, and Raoul swallows back the nausea threatening her at even the idea of leaving the house on bad terms with Philippe. She doesn’t like doing that, not when she thinks of that night in the lair, and how she swam through the lake wondering if she’d ever see her siblings again.

“And if I say no?”

Raoul freezes, halfway bent to kiss Eloise’s cheek.

“What?”

“You heard me, Raoul.”

“You can’t do that.”

“I can very well.” Philippe clears his throat, looking away like he knows he’s wrong, but is unwilling to admit it. “I’m your brother, and you live under my roof.”

Raoul stares at her brother, and she honest to God can’t form words. Not for something like that. Even when she was a child and she misbehaved he didn’t speak like this, not with this stark reminder that she is a woman, who though with her own money, does not own property and probably won’t until Philippe dies, and she inherits this house. A reminder that she is, legally, unmarried, and the world at large, whatever its advancements, sees him as her caretaker, until he passes her down to the husband she’ll never take.

Christine’s hand slips into hers, and for a moment Philippe gazes at her as if she might take his side.

She doesn’t.

When Raoul can’t form words, however, Eloise does.

“That’s enough, Philippe.” Her words pierce the air in that razor-sharp way Raoul’s heard before, only, it’s not directed at her. “You’re being ridiculous.”

Philippe sputters. “What on earth do you mean, Eloise?”

“I mean you are acting out because you are worried,” Eloise continues, calm as anything. “You have never bossed us about in this manner, telling us where we may or may not go. When Juliette and I said that you could leave off splitting father’s money among us and give it to us as dowries instead, you said no, that we were to be independent with our own money so that our husbands might not take advantage of us when we married, and it became, legally, theirs. Raoul has had her share since she was of age because you wanted to make sure she knew how to handle things, even though you were here to help. You may be the head of this family, but you have never asked us to obey without question, as too many men often do. Père, as much as we loved him, was very old-fashioned despite mother’s open-mind, and you insisted you would not be the same.”

“Eloise…” Philippe tries, and there’s something in his voice at the mention of the mother they scarcely ever discuss.

“You especially said that as much as we missed him, that you were somewhat relieved that Raoul did not have to tell him of who she loved, because he surely would not have liked it. And that you were determined she could live life as she saw fit.”

A long, deep silence permeates the room, and Raoul doesn’t know what to do.

Eloise is defending her.

“You may go,” Philippe finally says, chastised by Eloise’s words, or perhaps too surprised by them to argue. “You have supper with Meg and Laurent this evening?”

“Yes,” Raoul replies, softer than before, still trying to process that Eloise, _Eloise_ is standing up for her against Philippe, when her entire life it has been the opposite. “Are you going out?”

“With some friends,” Philippe tells her. “I’ll see you both later.”

Raoul’s about to go with Christine, and Eloise with them, but something calls her back. Something she can’t ignore. She puts her hand on top of her brother’s for a fleeting moment, and he lifts his eyes to meet hers.

“We’ll be all right,” she whispers. “Please enjoy your evening out. I want you to. You’ve lost enough of them, because of me.”

Philippe moves his hand so he can press hers, but he doesn’t say anything. He just watches her as she goes.

And he looks at her like she’s already gone. 

* * *

“Five days.” Erik tosses his head back dramatically in his chair. “Brilliant.”

“It’s not impossible to solve this in five days,” Ismaël says, taking a long sip of his tea. “We just need to re-think.”

“Re-think how?” Christine asks, distracted when Erik reaches for the teapot, pouring some first into her cup, then Raoul’s. Raoul doesn’t protest about this tea—which she seems to like far more than what they have at home—and she’s staring at Erik until she _realizes_ she’s staring.

Ismaël runs a hand through his short black hair. “Who, exactly, would have known that you were in the office the other evening?”

“The stagehands,” Raoul begins. “Some of the singers we interviewed. I don’t think word could have spread much beyond that, given the turnaround time. The person we saw outside the window briefly seemed a man, which makes me think, again of the stagehands. But none of the long-time ones we interviewed seemed at all suspicious. They could be hiding something certainly, but nothing stuck out.”

“Perhaps we ought to think harder on the new ones, then, just to cover everything,” Ismaël replies. “How many are there?”

“Three. Pierre, Jacques, and Adrien.”

“Four,” Christine corrects. “Martin came before the other three.”

“Yes, right.” Raoul gives Christine a smile. “He’s been here since we re-started, the other three coming in over months as we filled out our ranks. Adrien first. Then Jacques. Then Pierre. Adrien was a recommendation from Monsieur Firmin, one of the former managers.”

“I was wrong about Andre, or at least, it appears I was,” Erik says. “But Firmin. That could be something.”

“He seemed to want to get as far away from the opera as possible,” Raoul points out, though not in an irritated way.

Erik takes a long sip of his tea. “Yes. But he always seemed more in it for the money. I always liked Andre better.”

Raoul laughs, just a little. “You did?”

Erik smirks. “Indeed.”

Raoul pulls out some of the papers on the mentioned stagehands. “I’ll be sure to tell him you said so.”

Ismaël’s watching Erik in an approving sort of way, and Christine doesn’t know why, exactly, she only guesses that he must have had a talk with Erik, perhaps much like her own, because Erik’s been more agreeable since. How long that might last she’s not sure, but she’ll take it, for now.

“Where did the other two come from?” Ismaël asks, sliding on some reading spectacles to look at the notes.

“Jacques is the is the brother of my sister Eloise’s housekeeper,” Raoul says. “And Pierre was a hire from the Opera-Comique.”

“If one of these new people is involved.” Ismaël taps the papers with one finger. “Then their motives would be less clear. The theory that they’re helping someone on the outside would make the most sense. For money, I presume.”

Christine tilts her head. “But this person seems to be in need of money. They don’t say that, exactly, but I can see it between the lines. So why would they pay someone to do their dirty work?”

“Perhaps spending money in the hopes of gaining what they need,” Ismaël replies. “Or there’s some blackmail we don’t know of. The notes seem to be moving further away from mention of you, Christine, even as they continue on with the façade of being Erik. I remain convinced this person is after Raoul, but you ought to be careful as well, if they decide to drop the façade of being Erik, entirely.”

Raoul reaches for Christine’s hand, giving it a warm squeeze. Christine’s heart melts, it aches, when Raoul gives her that smile, that smile that tries to say she’s all right when she isn’t. Christine’s angry at Philippe, for perhaps the first time. Angry at him for hounding Raoul and achieving the opposite of the result he wants, for the thousand little ways in which he doesn’t trust Raoul to manage herself. The constant mentions of the herbal tea that only does so much to help Raoul sleep. Treating her, perhaps without noticing, like the little girl she no longer is. Christine doesn’t like being angry at Philippe, but she is, she realizes. After this morning. He’s going through something, too. She knows he is, but Raoul is just trying to hold her world together when she wasn’t quite through putting the old one back in place. One thing Christine hasn’t figured out yet is how to interfere when Raoul argues with her siblings, and that is, quite honestly, because it doesn’t happen often, aside from with Eloise. Juliette and Philippe are a different matter. Philippe’s been a mother hen ever since the lair, but not to this degree. There’s been something in his voice lately, too, the over-gentleness with her, like he thinks she’ll break, even if he’s shouting at Raoul.

The tea runs out, and Christine offers to go retrieve more from the batch in the kitchen.

She doesn’t go alone.

“You seem upset.” Erik leans against the wall with his arms crossed, keeping a fair distance between the two of them. He might be a shadow, coming in just a second after her, but unable to detach himself.

Christine pours tea into the smaller pot, the scent of the spices wafting through the air. “There’s…rather a lot going on. I miss the way things were before all of this started, and I want to find this person so we can get back to our lives.”

She turns around, not speaking to the hurt gleaming in Erik’s eyes, because getting back to their lives means getting back to the time before she saw him again. She’s glad he’s being more agreeable, but she’s not yet reached the place where she can say she’s glad to see him again. She’s not reached the place where she’s forgiven him, even if part of her heart is curious to know him.

“I mean…” he struggles here, his voice going soft. As soft as it was that night when she first heard him, and he asked her why she was crying. “…about more than just the general situation.”

Christine meets his eye, wanting to give him the benefit of the doubt. “We had a difficult morning. Philippe found out about the brick, and the note. We’d opted not to tell him, so he wouldn’t worry more than he already was.”

“Hmm. Trouble in the de Chagny house?”

“Erik.”

“Sorry.” He clears his throat. “I’m sure keeping these secrets from the elder de Chagny is no easy task, but I also know he would be less than pleased, I imagine, if he knew you were meeting with me.”

“Decidedly, yes.” Christine tucks a stray curl behind her ear. “He’s going through his own struggles. He just wants us safe, but…” she trails off, unsure if she wants to tell Erik about the anxieties he caused in Philippe. Not because she’s afraid, but because their encounter the other day exhausted her, and she’s trying trying _trying_ to find the strength in herself, feeling, lately, a little more like the timid girl she became in the aftermath of her father’s death and Erik’s control, when _timid_ was never who she was, before. Kind, yes, but happy to speak her mind. She needs to speak her mind now, perhaps even _with_ Philippe.

There’s a pause, a lingering moment or two where it feels impossible to start a normal conversation. How does one speak to someone who claimed to be an angel, only to find it a lie, especially when you believed them? She’s hard on herself, sometimes, for believing such a thing at all, but her father was always talking about ghosts and angels, and she and Raoul spent that first summer together going around begging the neighbors for fairy stories, so she turned to them, in the hardest moment of her life. She was so young, and so sad, and she remembers the promise of that voice. The voice of the man standing in front of her now.

She used to talk to him, but she will not be the one to talk first now. He needs to do that.

“Raoul is very…admirable,” he lands on the word like he’s trying to sort out if it’s right. “…for all she’s doing to protect the opera house. To ensure not just her place there, but yours. I thought, at first, that her family might not like you to sing. It relieved me when I saw in the papers that it wasn’t true. It seemed you were gone from the opera for a long while.”

Christine’s fingers curl over the teapot. “We went to the sea. Where Raoul and I met. It was good for her convalescence.”

Erik steps closer, though he remains on the opposite side of the counter from her. “You married there?”

A question about a sacred thing, a thing she worries for letting him touch, but there’s that quality in his voice, that echo of a man, and not a ghost, chasing away those dark things she heard the other day, the words he spoke about killing Raoul whatever her choice was, in the end.

“In our way, yes.” She runs a finger over the ring she realizes he’s looking at. “The world does not recognize it as such, of course. There is no legality to it other than what’s left to me in Raoul’s will.” Christine shudders at that idea. “But it is as good as, to me.”

She thinks of the wedding dress, and the locket she’s wearing now, that he gave back to her. She thinks of the way he said _at least she can marry me_.

“She makes you happy?”

Those words are vulnerable, they’re trembling, and they make Christine look back up at her old teacher.

“Yes,” she says, without having to think. “More than anything.”

“She loves you better than I gave her credit for.” Erik averts his eyes, a hint of bitterness in his voice. “I am seeing that, now.”

“She’s always loved me,” Christine whispers.

There’s a moment. A pause. Erik’s hand hovers over Christine’s and he looks at her for permission before resting it lightly atop hers. It’s short. Seconds, really, but it surprises Christine. Shocks her.

He never asked if he could touch her before. He just did it.

Erik clears his throat, pulling his hand away. “I will do my best to help you sort this out. This scoundrel doesn’t have half my flair for the dramatic, to his detriment.”

They return to Raoul and Ismaël, who are discussing the new stagehands and making plans to interview them, as well. Evening approaches and they bid the pair farewell, stepping out into the street. Marcel, sworn to secrecy over this venture, agreed to pick them up at the restaurant after supper, though he seemed worried about them walking alone the short distance from Ismaël’s flat to the place in question.

Christine slips her hand into Raoul’s as they walk along the quiet residential street, their fingers laced together. No one is watching them, and she relishes the moment, the feel of Raoul’s hand in hers out here in the open. Raoul’s looking ahead of them, and there’s something in her eyes. Something shrouded and sad that Christine wants to soothe.

“Raoul?”

“Yes, darling?”

“I love you. You know that, don’t you?”

Raoul stops, keeping hold of Christine’s hand and going a little pink in the cheeks. It’s endearing how talented Raoul is at finding any secret corner to kiss her when they’re not at home, yet she still turns shy, sometimes, at professions of love no matter how common they are between them, like she simply cannot believe her luck.

“Of course. That’s the thing I never doubt. I love you too.” She frowns. “Did Erik say something to you? I assumed you were talking, though I didn’t want to interrupt. Even if old instincts tell me to.”

“No.” Christine shakes her head. “He was just speaking of how much you loved me, how clear that was to him now, and after this morning, I wanted to remind you. Philippe loves you to, you know. He’s just…”

“Worried,” Raoul finishes. “I know.” Raoul continues walking, the heels of her boots scraping against the smooth, worn paving stones. “Erik has been strange, the past few times we’ve met. One moment he’s got his hand on my throat, and the next he’s asking me about my siblings. Even still, I don’t think we can tell Philippe, yet.”

Raoul’s hand shakes a little, and Christine holds it tighter. They chatter about things as they go, things that aren’t the matter at hand. Books. The piece Raoul was trying to compose before this started. Christine’s lessons with Estelle and the aria she struggles with in Faust. Raoul comes to a halt when they approach the end of the Rue de Rivoli, searching the twilight around them.

“Raoul?”

“Sorry,” Raoul says, searching around more before turning back to Christine. “I thought I heard something. My mind must be playing tricks on me.”

They make it to the main street, and Raoul presses a kiss to Christine’s knuckles before letting go and offering her arm instead. Christine takes it, tucking her hand into the crease of Raoul’s elbow as her eyes catch on the new golden bracelet. They see the restaurant off in the distance after a few minutes, and Meg is there with her hand in Laurent’s, waving at them. It might be any other night after they returned to Paris. Any other night when they found happiness after their nightmare.

But when they reach their dear friend, and the first thing Laurent asks about is the incident with the brick through the window, Christine remembers it isn’t.

* * *

Erik goes on his errand when Ismaël is sleeping.

He does leave a note.

He knows the path from his friend’s flat to the opera like he knows himself. Better. He used to walk it in the months when the opera stood empty, when he could bear it. He did not, once it re-opened, but he remembers the way, regardless. Hailing a fiacre at this hour, with his mask, would be asking for trouble.

With his mask, and the bag he has in his hands.

He stands in front of the opera once he arrives, marveling, a moment, at its grandeur. The white stone. The green roof. The bronze busts of great composers. The copper sculptures representing Poetry, Instrumental Music, The Dance, and Lyrical Drama. An architect himself, he cannot deny Garnier’s skill.

He only hopes Faust will exist for Garnier to see.

Damn him, and the budding sentiment that blossoms like a bruise on his chest, seeping deep down to his heart. This is what it’s like to do something for Christine, that doesn’t involve say, murder. For Christine and…

Well that damn girl.

He hates her still, at least part of him does, and while earnestness usually annoys him, her courage makes it bearable. Her courage for Christine. Her courage to face this. To face _him_ , all to keep the opera house running. He slips in through the side door they found unlocked last time, finding it not so any longer, though no lock is trouble for him. He’s inside soon enough, and as he stands in the grand hall, something tugs at him. Temptation. Temptation to go down to the candlelit hell he knows, and away from whoever he’s currently turning into. He can’t, of course, because his lair is blocked off with stone, but part of his soul longs for it.

What is he doing, helping Raoul de Chagny?

He thinks of Christine in Ismaël’s kitchen earlier, and the love in her voice as she spoke of Raoul. The way she nodded and let Erik briefly grasp her hand. She is steel and she is strong, and he should have given her credit for that, before. She is both of those things, and she is kind, too, deep down to the depths of herself.

Five days to figure this out. Five days isn’t enough.

He’s going to give them a few more.

This new, lesser ghost gave him an idea.

So he gets to work to make it look like vandals—drunk ones, without a motive other than chaos—broke into the Palais Garnier. If the government ministers hounding Raoul and Andre are busy focusing on cleaning this up—and delaying rehearsals until it is—then they will, perhaps, think less of anything Raoul might be hiding.

He searches around inside his bag for the half-full wine bottle, pulling out the cork and dribbling some on the floor as he goes, the red drops like blood in the silver moonlight. He goes further into the opera house, finding the doorway leading to the theater itself, smashing the knob before dumping the rest of the wine bottle out and letting it roll away. He comes back toward the grand staircase, breaking a lamp with another wine bottle, careful not to cut himself. He gazes at the windows, thinking that he needs to break them from outside so the glass shatters the right way. Like he is a vandal who was looking drunkenly for a way into the opera house. He takes a swig out of the final wine bottle, dropping it by the front door before opening it and stepping out into the night. He smashes the knob of that door too, then takes out the rocks making his bag heavy.

He only has a moment, because this will surely be heard, and he does not, in fact, want to get caught, because he’ll be caught for more than this if they realize who he is.

He smashes one window.

And then another.

And another.

And another.

Shards fall everywhere with a sharp, magnificent crash. It is a strange atonement, this shattered glass, but it will have to do, for now.

Atonement. _Atonement_. It’s the first time he’s thought the word. _Mercy_ , is what he thought that night in the lair as he cut Raoul down from the noose, her pulse _thrumming thrumming thrumming_ against his hand, Christine’s sobs like dissonant notes in his ear. Then _redemption_. Redemption came next, but what does redemption mean, without action?

He did not think he owed those two girls he hurt _action_. He thought he owed them only his absence. Antoinette certainly felt the same, playing the balancing act of maintaining her relationship with them and him all at once, desperate to keep them apart for fear of disaster.

Then they fell back into his life, and he didn’t want to think. He didn’t want to delve into his own darkness. His own heartbreak, both things hovering constantly at the edge and threatening to send him spiraling back into brutality. Into the lies he told Christine and the games he played with Raoul.

Then there was Christine. Standing up to him. Shouting at him. Looking at him in that office and speaking to him with a voice like a diamond—difficult to break but able to chip in places if you hit it hard enough. He heard the chipped places when she spoke to him that day.

Then there was Ismaël. His friend. His friend who is too good for him, telling him he must be better without sending him away. Tired. Worn-out, but still believing in him, somehow.

Then there was Raoul, again in the office, hunched over her papers and jumping at the mere sight of him in a doorway. He made fear the centerpiece of a courageous young woman’s life. Made her question herself.

Just like the people who were cruel to him, he created a nightmare. Continued that, rather than breaking the cycle.

And he realized that while his pain, his anger, his grief are not things he can predict or push away, he can control the brutality, the violence, the cruelty he chooses to enact. The lies he tells. The games he plays.

He steps out into the night, pulling his hat down and his coat about his shoulders, the autumn breeze cool against his uncovered cheek. He goes back around to the side, planning to take some back ways home.

That’s when he sees him.

A figure coming out of the side door where he entered minutes ago, a face looking panicked in the dark. The man doesn’t see him—he only looks like he might have seen a ghost—running off in the opposite direction. Erik takes in everything he can in the split-second he possesses.

Tall.

Pale-skinned.

Lanky, with a too-big coat.

Lighter hair, of some kind, the exact shade not visible beneath the wide-brimmed hat he’s wearing.

A hat, Erik thinks, not unlike his own.

The man turns into a spec, and then Erik’s alone again.

That is, until he hears shouting off in the distance, and he runs too, disappearing into the night like it’s a second skin.

* * *

Raoul awakes to a knock on the door.

She’s very tired of awaking to knocks on the door.

“Raoul. Christine, something’s happened at the opera.”

Philippe’s voice. Philippe’s voice at barely daybreak—too early, for any of them. Christine makes a noise of confusion next to her, and Raoul springs out of bed despite the ache behind her eyes. She’s only been really asleep for four hours or so, the rest of it fitful and interrupted by dreams.

“What’s the matter?” she asks as she opens the door, bleary-eyed. She realizes belatedly that there’s a fresh smear of Christine’s lipstick on her neck, some of it staining the collar of the white nightdress.

“There’s been some damage at the opera,” Philippe tells her without delay. “Broken windows. Wine bottles left out. Vandals of some sort the note said but it just as easily be whatever fiend is bothering you. We need to get down there. I have an appointment this morning, but I can at least go down with you.”

“What appointment?” Raoul asks.

“Business.” Philippe waves off the question. “I need to speak with Louis.”

Their banker but…he was there only recently, if Raoul remembers correctly. She doesn’t have time to contemplate it.

They dress and eat in a hurry—there’s only time for a half cup of coffee and then a pastry in the carriage—and soon enough they’re at the opera and there are…

…police officers, one of them an inspector in the Surete. Andre’s there too, looking nervous.

“This is my fellow manager…” Andre begins.

“Raoul de Chagny,” the inspector interrupts, making Andre frown. “Yes, I thought so.” He gazes at Raoul and her clothes for too long a moment, before his eyes dart over to Christine with…well it can only be disapproval. “I’m Inspector Marchand.”

Christine purses her lips, and Philippe is outright scowling at the inspector, though he stays quiet, for now.

“What happened? Raoul asks.

“As you can see…” Inspector Marchand gestures at the window. “They broke some windows. There’s a little damage inside—one of the lamps on the staircase broken. The doorknob to the theater smashed. The doorknob to the front entrance smashed. Wine bottles broken and spilled. That sort of thing. Some people heard the noise at around one in the morning.”

He sounds bored. Either bored, or suspicious, given the way he’s looking at her.

“Is there any clue as to who did this?” Raoul keeps her voice even, but she’s annoyed, already, with his attitude.

“No,” he says, sniffing. “It seems like drunks to me. Unless…” he peers at her, narrowing his eyes. “The famed opera ghost has come to call again. Would you know anything about that?”

Christine goes stiff. Raoul’s hands turn sweaty and she wants to reach for Christine and _damn the world_ , she can’t, but before she can say anything, Philippe interjects.

“That is enough, inspector!” he shouts, rather loud enough for passerby to hear. “How dare you speak to my sister that way? She and Monsieur Andre run this opera house and I don’t like the implication of what you’re saying.”

“All right, Monsieur le Comte.” Inspector Marchand raises both hands, backing down a bit at Philippe’s ire. “I’m only saying, there have been plenty of suspicious happenings at this opera involving your sister that were quite strange and never solved. You can’t deny it. I only want to make sure this wasn’t staged by a young woman looking for attention. Or trying to get out of a venture she isn’t suited for without admitting to failure.”

“You are out of line, Inspector…” Philippe begins.

“Nothing strange was happening, until this morning.” Acid crawls up Raoul’s throat as she tells the lie, interrupting her brother. Getting caught in the lie will mean this is over, but it was going to be over if they ever found out about the notes, anyway, probably, so she’s not really losing anything. Lying to this kind of extent is not in her nature, not at all, but she must. She must she must. “If you think I had anything to do with this, you are incorrect.”

“We were not in league with the opera ghost.”

The sound of Christine’s voice surprises Raoul, soft as it is, but steady.

“Pardon, Mademoiselle Daae?” Inspector Marchand asks.

“Those _strange things_ you mention,” she continues, one hand clenched into a fist. “It sounded as if…

“You were implying they were helping the ghost before, or perhaps are again,” Philippe finishes, and Christine looks annoyed that he completed the sentence for her. “They were not, I assure you, unless you count my sister’s attempted murder as her own design. You will not engage in this line of questioning again, am I understood?”

Raoul has to stop herself from jumping, at that. Philippe doesn’t normally shout at people like this, he doesn’t use his power in such a way, and if he did she would chide him for it, but she doesn’t, now, not when this officer is being as cruel as he is.

Inspector Marchand doesn’t answer.

“I asked you a question, inspector,” Philippe presses. “I will not have you treat my sister or Mademoiselle Daae in such a way. It is not becoming of a gentleman.”

“You are understood, Monsieur le Comte,” Inspector Marchand mutters.

Philippe can be stubborn, but he hasn’t been himself, recently. Not that any of them are, but he’s been…well Philippe doesn’t _get up to things,_ so Raoul doesn’t know what he’s thinking, but he’s being strange. She knows why he’s being strange, but he’s being stranger than the moment even calls for.

“Hear hear,” Andre says softly. “I can attest to how hard Mademoiselle de Chagny and Mademoiselle Daae worked to stop the chaos at the opera, whatever the gossips said. They have worked hard to restore it to its former glory, as well. This was not their doing.”

“I wouldn’t…” the inspector stumbles over his words. “Let’s go survey the damage, shall we?”

Raoul makes to go inside, but before she does, she sees a familiar face standing across the street, making out as if he’s simply walking past.

Ismaël.

She waits until Philippe and the police pass her, gesturing at him subtly with one hand, and directing him toward the side-street where they met to go into the opera before.

She wonders if Erik might already be waiting there.

She looks at the damage inside, and though it’s not terribly extensive at all—the windows will be the most expensive to fix—it does hurt her, to see the opera damaged in any way. Perhaps it’s reminders of the night the chandelier fell, or just because she loves the place, however much memories of it haunt her dreams. She’s made into it something new, _they’ve_ made it into something new, and it represents so much about the life she leads with Christine and their friends.

The question remains: did vandals do this, or was it the new ghost? It seems more likely the latter, but if he—they?—did, then it will give them a few more days to sort this out. It will mean pushing out rehearsal another week past the handful of days left, but she’d rather that than subject the company to some new terror.

And the ministers won’t be able to say anything. She hopes.

The officers count the hole in the managers’ office window among the casualties of last night. Off to the side as it is, the smaller break covered up as well as they could, it went unnoticed by passerby, she assumes, and not enough to summon the police over.

Given the wine bottles and the random nature of the damage, Inspector Marchand sees fit to write it off as vandals, with little hope of finding the culprits, and little need. At least, that’s what he says. Raoul has too much else going on to question it.

“Should I contact Monsieur Allard?” he asks, mentioning the minister who sent Raoul the letter. “So he knows?”

“No,” Raoul says, a touch too quickly. “I am in touch with him already, given we’ve had to delay rehearsals due to a head cold going around the company. Madmoiselle Daae has only just recovered. This, as you can imagine, puts rather a dent in our plans to resume in a few days.”

“Yes,” Inspector Marchand says, clapping his notebook closed. “Wouldn’t want vagrants in the theater, I imagine, with the doors and windows needing tending to.”

With that, he gives them his information, and he and the others officers go, as if damage, however small in the grand scheme, to a cultural landmark of Paris, is no matter.

Or perhaps it’s no matter because they don’t approve of who’s in charge.

“Well,” Andre sighs, folding his hands in front of him. “Another incident, even with us out of the opera house.”

“I’ll be damned if it isn’t that fiend from before.” Philippe checks his pocket-watch. “I’m going to be late, but are you all right?”

The words _all right_ , innocuous as they are, rest thick with tension between them.

“I’m a bit shaken,” Raoul says, though she’s been more shaken by other things, recently, but she thinks that’s not what her brother wants to hear. “But we’ll be fine here, in the daylight.”

Philippe nods, hesitating as if there’s something else he wants to say, before pressing kisses to Raoul and Christine’s cheeks and bidding Andre goodbye.

“I’ll go write to Monsieur Allard promptly,” Andre says. “Did I see…”

“Ismaël?” Raoul finishes. “Yes. Christine and I will go talk with him, and I’ll send you a message later, to let you know what we find out. Could you go to Monsieur Berger’s office, and see if they can at least cover up the windows, and fix the front door today? I don’t want the entrance exposed to the elements, or anyone getting any ideas about coming inside to break anything else. I’ll come this afternoon, if possible, to talk with them further about costs and the time involved.”

Andre nods in agreement, squeezing Raoul’s shoulder and kissing Christine’s hand before he too, goes out into the street.

Raoul waits until she thinks Philippe is well and truly gone, then goes over to the side door they entered through with Ismaël and Erik the first time, and wrenches it open.

Ismaël is there. And so is Erik.

Ismaël has the good sense to step inside immediately, but Erik does not, so Raoul tugs on the sleeve of the infamous opera ghost, and yanks him through the doorway.

“Excuse me!” Erik protests. “Just what are you doing?”

“What am _I_ doing?” Raoul asks in a raised whisper. “What are _you_ doing, it’s broad daylight!”

She glances at Ismaël in question, but he isn’t given time to answer.

“I did this,” Erik says.

“Did what?” Raoul asks, bewildered.

Erik gestures around at the opera. “ _This_. The damage, the breaking, it was me.”

Christine closes her eyes. “I’m sorry, what?”

“I did this,” Erik repeats. “Is that so hard to…”

“We heard you,” Raoul interrupts. “But we are _confused_ , monsieur.”

Erik shrugs, and it’s oddly elegant. “You needed more time to sort this out, so I’m giving it to you. You’ll need at least a week or probably two to fix the windows and the doors before rehearsal may start. You’re welcome.”

Raoul gapes at him, and she almost smiles.

Christine does smile, small as it might be, and that’s enough for Raoul to complete her own.

What Erik did to them, the way he changed them and scarred them, will always remain, even after it heals. There’s no denying that, and there may never be a way to entirely forgive him, but this…

Well this is something.

It’s interesting.

It’s what Christine saw in him despite it all.

Though, she can’t say she’s surprised he took such a dramatic route.

“So you…broke things? To help?” Raoul asks.

Erik narrows his eyes, just a hint of the old danger in them, though its far more muted. “Did you need more time, or not?”

Raoul crosses her arms over her chest. “Yes.”

“You ought to have told us,” Christine comments, a kind of amused sullenness in her voice. “We were quite out of sorts this morning when we heard.”

Erik softens a touch before shooting a glance at Ismaël. “As if Daroga would have let me follow through with it, had he known.”

“I might have,” Ismaël argues.

Erik smirks at his friend. “Destruction is not your forte.”

“We ought to go somewhere else,” Raoul says. “Before we’re caught here. It won’t do.”

She turns to go, drawn back by Erik’s voice.

Erik’s voice saying her first name.

“Raoul.”

She spins around, attempting to hide her surprise. “Yes?”

“There’s one more thing.” Erik’s eyes flit between Raoul and Christine, though Ismaël must already know what he’s talking about. “I saw someone leave the opera last night. Out the side-door right here.”

Raoul jolts. “Who?”

“A man, for certain,” Erik replies. “Tall. Fair haired I think, though a bit hard to tell in the dark. Lanky and wearing a coat that was too big, like he was trying to hide himself. And I thought about Meg Giry’s young man. He fits that description.”

“No,” Christine insists. “It’s not Laurent. It can’t be.”

“Christine.” Erik speaks a bit like a teacher chiding his student, and before, it might have sounded condescending, but now, Raoul thinks, it sounds cut through with guilt. “People lie. Men lie to women, all the time.”

“I know that.” Christine’s hands ball into fists. “But he doesn’t have motive to help whoever is really behind this. He’s well paid here.”

“Greed is powerful, or maybe he needs money for something you aren’t aware of,” Erik argues. “A debt of some kind.”

Christine puts a hand on her hip, and Raoul feels proud, watching her argue with Erik without fear. Well, it’s not entirely gone, but it doesn’t make her freeze up. It doesn’t give her that glassy, wide-eyed look. She admires it, because her own mind feels so stuck, still, though she’s able to be around Erik now without immediate, nauseating panic, and that has to count for something.

“I understand. But not everyone is up to something.”

Erik bites his lip like he’s trying to stop a smile. “He did just propose to her. A distraction?”

“Or,” Christine says pointedly. “Because she loves him, and she’s feeling strange being in her mother’s home, considering recent events. People have sped up marriages for worse reasons. Besides, Laurent was on stage when all the scenery fell.”

“Do any of the new stagehands fit that description?” Ismaël asks, looking at Raoul in question.

Raoul ponders. “Adrien and Jacques are the closest. Pierre and Martin are both dark haired.”

“We ought to consider them more thoroughly, then, if none of the people you interviewed proved suspicious, though we ought not count them out. Or Laurent, though I am more convinced of a stagehand.” Ismaël pauses as if he hears something, though Raoul doesn’t. “Raoul’s right. We ought to go and talk elsewhere. Meet us in two hours? I don’t want both of us going in the same direction, in case anyone is following us.”

Christine slips her arm through Raoul’s. “You think someone might be?”

“I thought…” Ismaël grimaces. “…I thought I might have seen someone the other day, after you left, outside the window. A carriage leaving only shortly after yours. Not innately suspicious—plenty of people live on my street, but we can’t be too careful.”

Raoul suddenly, violently, wishes she’d brought her sword cane. Her savate would come in handy if someone were to accost them, but having that couldn’t hurt. She will bring it, from now on. Erik and Ismaël agree to go out the side-door, but before they can go, Raoul calls out to them.

“Erik?”

Erik turns around, his gray eyes curious behind the half-mask that’s so haunted her nightmares. “Yes, mademoiselle?”

“Thank you.”

Erik nods, once, then goes with Ismaël, who looks rather pleased with his friend despite the broken glass all around them. Raoul stands for a moment with Christine at the foot of the staircase, her heart aching at the damage. It’s small, and entirely fixable, and it will help them gain the time they need, but with each passing day the opera is becoming more and more a place of fear again, when they worked so hard to move beyond that. Christine’s arms slip around Raoul’s waist, drawing her forward.

“We’ll sort this out,” Christine whispers. “Remember how you told me that when everything was happening with Erik? You made me believe it, even though I was so scared. I promise you, we will again.”

“I know,” Raoul says, letting Christine tuck a stray hair behind her ear, and summoning that girl she was, that bright-eyed, optimistic girl, back into her soul. “Thank you.” She studies the damage around them. “Erik is full of surprises, isn’t he?”

“Hmm.” Christine smiles. “I think that talk I had with him the other day might have done some good.”

Raoul presses her lips to Christine’s, and they stay that way for a moment or two, sharing a long, lingering kiss like it might be any other day in the opera house. Like they might be in Christine’s new dressing room with the door-locked, stealing a few moments for themselves. Raoul closes the gap between them and pulls Christine against her. The embrace eases the tension pounding behind her temples, and Christine sighs, clinging on tight as though she needed one just as badly. They go out the broken front door, only to see a small figure sitting upon the steps, her head resting upon her knees.

Simone.

“Simone?” Raoul asks immediately, coming up beside her and squatting down. “Simone, what’s the matter?”

Simone looks up, Christine’s hand going to her shoulder.

“My mother died last night,” she says, tears spilling down her cheeks. “And the man we rent our room from said…” she takes a deep, shuddering breath, and she looks even more tired than she did when they last saw her a few days ago. “He said he was kicking me out. My mother was all I had, and I don’t…” she trails off, bursting into sobs that crack Raoul’s heart in two.

Raoul glances at Christine, who is already crying, no doubt thinking of her own father. Her own loss. Raoul thinks of when she was Simone’s age and her father died, and, motherless as she was, how it made her an orphan. But she, at least, had her siblings. Very much like Christine, Simone, as she made clear the other day, has no one else.

“Don’t worry.” Raoul puts a hand on Simone’s back, making this decision without even thinking twice. Without even knowing what comes next. “You’ll come home with us.”

* * *

Simone’s been asleep for an hour, at least.

Christine, meanwhile, is down in the sitting room with Meg and Madame Giry, who helped her move Simone’s paltry few possessions from the tiny room she occupied with her mother. She can’t help but recall when her own father died, and what little she had. They were taken care of, she and her father, by a patron and his wife for a few years, there by the sea—Mama and Papa Valerius—but Papa Valerius died, and Mama Valerius was too frail to take care of her, and didn’t have much left, in the end. So, in turn, neither did Christine and Gustave. Her father might have been famous, somewhat, he might have played great halls in the French countryside, as he was willing, but that did not always come with a well-paying sum.

It is, she considers, one of the things Raoul spoke of when she set to running the opera house—doing her best to make sure the musicians were paid well.

A memory of Andre and Firmin’s arrival at the opera bleeds into her mind, a memory of the afternoon before she met Raoul again.

_Any relation to the violinist?_

_My father, sir._

It was, she thinks, what made her like Andre from the start, more than Firmin. She shakes her head, her mind as much in the clouds right now as it was that day. Philippe agreed to Simone staying, and went out to tend to some business with paying for a plot for her mother in a graveyard, so the body wasn’t buried unmarked.

She almost feels bad, for being angry at Philippe recently, but he _is_ being strange, and that hasn’t changed. He is still himself in his generosity, however, and Simone, driven to more tears by this, thanked him profusely.

Raoul, meanwhile, had to go see Monsieur Berger about repairing the opera, promising to return as soon as she was able, so Christine is alone in the house, aside from the servants. Needless to say, they won’t be going to Ismaël’s today, so the mystery will have to wait.

Thank God Erik gave them more time, in his strange, destructive sort of way.

“Simone was saying that her mother hasn’t been working at all these past six months,” Christine says, holding a ragged dress in her hands. “When she said her mother had a cough I didn’t know she meant consumption.”

“I’m not surprised she didn’t mention it,” Madame Giry says, real empathy in her voice that makes Christine’s anger at her burn less hotly. “They sometimes make the poorer among us go into sanitoriums with that, and they usually aren’t well-kept, unless they’re for people with money.”

Sadness swoops through Christine’s stomach, because Madame Giry is right. France may have come a long way, France may finally have a settled republic, but they still have a ways to go before problems like that, problems like treating poverty as a moral failing, are fixed.

She was never as bad off as Simone, but she spent most of her life poor, until very recently. She thinks of her father and his clothes mended over and over again, taking better care of his precious violin—the one upstairs that now belongs to Raoul, gifted when Papa Valerius bought him a new one—better than his other belongings. She always had fresh clothes, but he often went without new things.

“No father?” Meg asks, glancing toward the upstairs, where Simone’s sleeping in one of the guest rooms.

Christine shakes her head. “No. It seems he’s dead, or simply not around. I didn’t want to pry, right now.”

“How long will she stay with you?” Madame Giry asks.

Christine puts the dress down, picking up an old doll that must have been Simone’s when she was younger. “I’m not sure. But I hate to send her anywhere until we know she’ll be cared for. I…I remember how lonely I felt, when I lost my only parent.”

Madame Giry’s hands still, hovering over the box of belongings. Meg notices too, studying her mother in question, though she doesn’t speak, yet.

Then come the words Christine wasn’t expecting, having largely tolerated Madame Giry today because she came along with Meg, who Christine desperately wanted to see.

“I am sorry, Christine,” Madame Giry begins. “For encouraging those lessons with Erik. I do care about him, as a friend, but I let that cloud my judgement. What he was capable of. What he was doing. I thought your love of music was enough to bond you, and I should have been brave enough to stop him.”

Christine pauses, her own anger at Madame Giry clarifying at those words. She is not, she realizes, angry that Madame didn’t stop him once it had already begun—he was too dangerous for that—but angry that she thought of it in the first place. That she didn’t say _this is a man, and not a spirit, this is his backstory_ , so Christine could make choices of her own.

“I appreciate that.” Christine turns toward her old ballet mistress, pressing her hand before pulling back.

“I know things are not so easily mended,” Madame Giry admits, her eyes flicking to Meg, who looks softer toward her mother than Christine’s seen in weeks. “I told Meg as much when I apologized to her for lying, for scaring her with what I did by holing her up at Ismaël’s house. But I wanted to offer it, all the same. I do care about you, and about Raoul. My caring about Erik does not preclude that. I would not have helped him, had he chosen to go after you again.”

“You should learn to be less suspicious, Maman,” Meg mutters, though a bit fondly. “Please just tell us the truth, in the future?”

Madame Giry smiles, putting a kiss on Meg’s cheek. “I shall, my dear. I shall.”

Christine feels a little lighter, after that, despite all the things swirling around in her mind. Despite the fact that she hasn’t told Meg about Erik’s suspicions of Laurent, because she refuses to break Meg’s heart without some kind of proof. It is, she thinks, yet another omission when they are here committing to the truth, but she doesn’t think it _is_ Laurent. Every time they think they know something, something else unravels. First, one person. Then, two people, and perhaps even three. Suspicion cast upon so many, and yet the truth remains out of their reach. First Erik. Then Madame Giry. And so many, _suggested_ by Erik—Andre (obviously not true), Simone (Christine doubts it), Firmin (could possibly be). So many thought of by Ismaël —company members who worked in the opera before, the opera ghost’s legend known to them, and now new members who might be helping someone standing at the center of it all, someone with less showmanship than Erik, even as the threats keep increasing. Someone who is angry at them for their power in the opera house, or some perceived slight.

Someone who wants money.

Someone who hates Raoul. Her generous, beautiful Raoul who has been trying so, _so_ hard.

Someone who might want to _hurt_ Raoul, if their demands aren’t met.

In-between the lines of the notes Christine feels like she knows the person writing them, but she can’t reach deep enough within her own mind to pull out an answer. She thinks of her fears in the days before Don Juan, and how overwhelming they were. She thinks of the heaviness in her chest, her limbs, everywhere, Raoul’s voice the only thing making her believe in a future. She doesn’t feel quite like that now, but there’s an echo of it, made worse when she has that future she so dreamed about.

She will not let this person tear it away from her. She will not let them hurt Raoul.

She only hopes that they can all figure this out, before something else goes wrong.

Something worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed! If you're over on Tumblr, come talk to me! I'm KCrabb88


	9. I Shall Know How to Prevent You!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Raoul bonds with Eloise, her treasured relationship with Philippe growing more strained. Raoul and Christine try to figure out how to care for an orphaned Simone. Erik does something kind. And as the new ghost strikes the worst blow yet, tensions in the de Chagny house reach a breaking point.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for non-graphic depictions of injury in this chapter!

As autumn edges closer to winter, the cold air arrives.

And with it, irritation in Raoul’s lungs. That tightness in her chest.

She notices it when she wakes up in the morning and the house is chillier than normal. Madeline lights the fire in Raoul and Christine’s sitting room, and they take breakfast there, eager to stay in the warmth. Philippe is out, this morning—again—and Christine set to go with Meg and Madame Giry to shop for some things for Simone.

“You stay in,” Christine says, not leaving much room for argument. “We won’t be gone too long.”

“Christine.” Raoul does argue, in fact, though she knows that look in Christine’s eye. “I can’t simply not go out whenever it’s cold.”

Christine glances at Raoul in the mirror, where she’s putting on some rouge. “I didn’t say ever, I just said for today. I won’t insist upon it, I just think you could use the rest. Sleep hasn’t come easy, lately.”

She’s not wrong there. Raoul’s slept perhaps nine hours in the past two days, weariness in her bones and that ache behind her eyes.

“All right.” Raoul gives in, appreciating the suggestion rather than the demand. “You’ll be fine?”

With everything going on, she hates to let Christine out of her sight.

Christine turns from the mirror, coming over to where Raoul sits in her usual armchair.

“I’ll be perfectly fine, my love.” She runs the back of her gloved hand down Raoul’s cheek before lowering her voice. “There’s no getting to Ismael’s today, so try and rest, please?”

Raoul agrees, and Christine kisses her before she goes, a warm, ardent thing that makes chills shoot up from the base of Raoul’s spine.

“Tease,” Raoul says, a grin sliding across her lips.

Christine winks, beautiful as ever when she steps out the door. Simone’s there as she does, waving shyly at Raoul and looking, at least, like she’s had some sleep. Madeline helped her bathe this morning, her pale skin scrubbed pink and her light brown hair freshly brushed. Just a year older than her niece Claire, Raoul wonders if they might make friends.

Once Raoul’s alone, she naps for a short while, then dresses properly for the day, choosing one of her favorite wool skirts. She opts to stay in her room, sitting by the fire and reading the post Lucien brings up—a note from Celine, checking on them, a letter from Carlotta and Piangi, striking a worried tone after Christine’s own message to them yesterday, giving them updates on what’s happening, and a reply from Monsieur Allard about the damage at the opera, allowing a further two week delay of rehearsal. Raoul coughs, clearing her throat again and deciding she’ll read when there’s a knock on the door.

“Raoul? May I come in?”

Eloise.

Raoul gives her assent, surprised when she sees her sister with a pile of dresses in her hand.

“Hello,” Eloise says. “Philippe stopped by yesterday on his way home and told me about the little girl staying here with you and I thought I might bring by some of the dresses Claire doesn’t wear? She’s a year younger I know, but Philippe said the little girl was quite small, for her age.”

“She is.” Raoul takes the dresses, walking into the bedroom a moment and speaking loud enough so her sister can hear. “But these will likely fit, thank you, it’s very kind.”

She puts the dresses in her wardrobe temporarily before coming back out to join Eloise.

“You can sit with me a while, if you’d like,” she says. “If you don’t mind sitting up here, that is. Fire’s going well.”

Eloise obliges, sitting down across from Raoul and pouring herself some water. “Are you feeling ill? I didn’t expect to find you in.”

“Cold air’s bothering my lungs a bit,” Raoul tells her. “It happens, sometimes. Christine is out with Simone and the Girys to purchase some things.” A cough annunciates her words as if to emphasize her point. “Not busy, today? It’s several hours yet before our weekly dinner.”

“Not terribly,” Eloise says, pausing when Madeline steps inside asking if they’d like some coffee. “Claire and Jean-Luc are with their tutors, and Alexandre has a meeting of some sort. He wants to invest in that shipping company, oh…what’s it called?”

“Compagnie Générale Transatlantique?” Raoul asks.

Eloise points. “Yes, that one. There’s a great deal of paperwork, apparently, and Alexandre wants to responsibly purchase another home out in Sceaux or somewhere like that, if we want to get out of the city but not make a long trip to the country. Though I’ll say to you I’m sure we could do that anyway, but it seems to please him, the business of it all.”

“I’ve had to learn to love numbers myself,” Raoul says, feeling more at ease with Eloise than she has in a while. “Since managing the opera and looking at the books. I do prefer words.” She smiles and Eloise does too, and she recalls just a few days ago, when Eloise helped her with Philippe. “Thank you, by the way. For the help with Philippe. I’m….”

She stops, there, stops herself from saying _I’m used to Juliette doing that._

Eloise leans back in her chair, folding her hands. She does, Raoul considers, looking more like Philippe while Raoul looks more like Juliette, her hair light brown with streaks of gold, her eyes green rather than blue, and there’s something about her chin, her face shape, that strikes Raoul as being very much like their brother, a chiseled sort of elegance that suits her.

“I know Juliette usually does that.” Eloise echoes Raoul’s thoughts. “Though, you and Philippe rarely argue, and I think they are of a singular mind in worrying about you lately that I felt I ought to step in.”

Raoul quirks an eyebrow. “You aren’t worried?”

“I am.” Eloise smirks at Raoul’s teasing. “But I think that I, being the one closest to you in age, and knowing what well-meaning mother hens they can be, see that you are not the little girl they sometimes imagine you to be. They are proud of you, don’t mistake me, but you are their darling, you know.”

There’s something sad in Eloise’s voice, something apart, and Raoul reaches over the small table, clasping her sister’s hand. It’s true that she’s thought many times how different Eloise was from the three of them, but recently she’s hoped to mend that, to know Eloise as more than the older sister who likes lecturing her.

“They love you, Eloise,” Raoul says softly. “I love you.”

“I know.” Eloise squeezes Raoul’s hand. “It’s just different. I am not so much younger.” She pauses, keeping tight hold of Raoul’s fingers, a look of concern passing across her face when Raoul coughs again. “I was terrible to you for so long. I’m so sorry for it, Raoul. Especially for what I did with that letter from Christine. She is very dear to me now, and I wouldn’t stand for anyone to be cruel to her.”

An old ache throbs at the mention of that, but it eases after a moment. “We’re past that.”

“I know.” Eloise smiles again. “Just…seeing you go through all of this, reminds me of those days. Any word? Any new clues?”

“We have our eye on a few of the stagehands, potentially,” Raoul replies. “We’re interviewing them soon, I hope. Though it seems there may be more than one person involved, as I said before. Actually…” she pauses. “If I ask you this can you keep it to yourself, for now?”

Eloise glows at the confidence, leaning forward as if they might be schoolgirls sharing secrets. “Right now we’re most focused on a few of the newer stagehands, and potentially a singer. Do you…well Jacques doesn’t have any sort of history, does he? I assumed Bridgette would have mentioned it to you or Alexandre,” she continues, referencing Eloise’s housekeeper.

“No, nothing.” Eloise taps her chin. “Do you suspect it’s him, truly?”

“We only suspect that someone in the backstage crew might be helping someone outside of the opera, who has more motive,” Raoul responds, leaving out the facts they know about physical appearance because she can’t explain _that_ without explaining Erik. “And as the interviews of the older hands turned up nothing, we’re looking toward some of the newer hires. As to who is the ringleader, we have vague theories, but nothing concrete.”

Raoul coughs again as Madeline brings coffee in, looking at her sidelong. A sip or two only irritates Raoul more, and she clears her throat and clears it again, a slight, whistling wheeze audible.

“I only know that he worked in some theaters in Lyon, where they’re from, before he came to Paris,” Eloise says, eyeing Raoul like she hears the wheeze too. “No bad history of any kind, or I wouldn’t have suggested him. No great gambler or any sort of thing, so far as I’m aware. No debts that would make him susceptible to doing something criminal for money. Though, we don’t know everything about anyone, I suppose.”

Raoul starts coughing again, more violently this time, that asthmatic itch in her throat growing more persistent.

“Raoul, are you all right?” Eloise asks.

“Yes,” Raoul clears her throat against the mucus inflaming her airways. “Could you get my inhaler? It’s the strange glass contraption in the cabinet in the corner over there.”

Eloise does, helping Raoul use it until the coughing mostly subsides. She runs a hand down Raoul’s back in a soothing, sisterly sort of way, but without any prodding or condescension.

“Better?”

“Yes, thank you. Sorry, I haven’t had to use it for a bit, the sudden colder weather this morning is bothering me more than I expected.”

“It’s perfectly all right.” Eloise takes the inhaler, putting it back in it’s place. “Though I could strangle that man, for leaving you with these problems. I hope he’s unhappy, wherever he is.”

“Yes.” Raoul clears her throat again, this time to hide the anxiety in her voice. “I can understand that.”

Eloise sits back down, her eyes darting to the golden bracelet on Raoul’s arm. “Now,” she says, with a touch of Meg Giry’s air about her. “Do tell me all about this bracelet Christine got you. I should like to hear the story of her giving it to you.”

Raoul will decidedly be keeping _some_ of that story to herself, but she does grin, a slight flush in her cheeks at the memory of how pleased she was to open this, and how happy Christine was to _see_ her pleased.

And, despite everything happening, how pleased she is to have, for once in the past few weeks, a normal conversation with one of her siblings. 

* * *

A few hours later, Christine returns with Simone. In an effort to distract and comfort the little girl, Raoul offers to read aloud in the hours preceding supper. Eloise, opting to stay rather than going back home only to return, is upstairs in the library with Philippe, selecting a few books she might take with her for Claire to read. Philippe thought that Simone might like to eat with the other children—Estelle excepted, as she now eats with the adults—but after seeing Simone’s face go pale, Raoul gently suggested otherwise.

She doesn’t know how long they can keep this up—taking care of Simone, sneaking off to Ismael’s, trying to sort out who this new ghost is—all while maintaining a façade of normalcy that doesn’t exist.

Raoul wonders when she’ll ever sleep properly again. She wonders how long they can keep Simone when she isn’t, legally, their ward, but she’s also loathe to release her to any sort of orphanage, not when there’s room here, and money aplenty, and…

Is she very seriously considering taking in a child when they are currently being hunted by yet another madman?

She is, isn’t she?

She glances over at Christine, who has her chair pulled up very close to Simone’s, pointing at something on the page and making Simone laugh for the first time all day. Raoul smiles, thinking that Simone is as gangly as she was at twelve, all angles and edges and taller, yet, than any of the boys. Christine’s managed to draw smiles from Simone in the past little while, gentle where she knows Simone needs it—she remembers, certainly, what it’s like to not only lose a parent, but to feel alone in the world. The sound of Christine’s chair scraping back draws Raoul from her reverie.

“I need to go change my dress for supper,” Christine says, resting a hand on Raoul’s shoulder. “I’ll be back in little bit.”

Raoul, having changed a bit ago, nods, smiling herself as Christine kisses her cheek. Simone’s studying her as Christine walks away, the brightness of a question in her dulled eyes.

“How long have you lived together?” Simone asks. “You and Miss Christine I mean?”

“A little less than two years,” Raoul says, wondering how much Simone knows about their relationship. It is not great secret in the opera, of course, though the details of course, are not spoken of aloud, other than their living together. “We rather like it.”

Simone smiles again, though it’s tighter than before. “Thank you so much, Mademoiselle de Chagny. For everything. I…” she bites her lip. “My mother was all I ever had, really and I…” she heaves a great sigh, too great for a girl her age. “I miss her.”

“I know you do.” Raoul’s careful with her words, like she might be handling china, nearly crying herself. “And you may call me Raoul.”

Simone nods, twisting her fingers in her lap. “I just…I hate to be a burden to you, but I’m so grateful, for you giving me a place to stay.”

Raoul closes the space between them, taking Simone’s smaller hand in hers.

Simone _jolts_.

Raoul lets go, not because it startles her, but because she doesn’t want to touch anyone who doesn’t wish to be touched.

It does startle her when Simone takes her hand back, skinny fingers curling around Raoul’s own. Tears glimmer in Simone’s eyes, lit pale orange in the glow of the crackling fire.

“You may tell me anything,” Raoul says, grasping Simone’s hand tighter. “I know Christine was telling you about her father, but I lost mine too, when I was about your age. My mother died when I was born. I know how hard it is. How you feel like you might have a hole in your chest.”

A sob bursts past Simone’s lips, and Raoul gets out of her chair entirely, squatting in front of Simone instead and taking hold of both her hands.

“If you’re worried about us letting you out into the street or to some terrible place, I promise you we won’t.” The words come out of Raoul’s mouth without forethought, and she’s not sure what she’s promising, exactly, she’s not even sure what the legalities might be, or if there’s a nice family who might like a child, or if Simone will stay here, but she does know she wants to help this sweet child, who has nothing. No one. “You may tell me anything.” 

“I…” Simone claps a hand over her mouth before looking up, her eyes red. “I can tell you anything?”

Raoul smiles, gentle gentle gentle with her words as she thumbs away some of Simone’s tears. “Anything at all.”

Right as Simone is about to speak, however, the front door opens, voices carried inside on the autumnal breeze.

“I do miss the sun, at this time of year,” Francois’s saying. “Makes me terribly sleepy. Especially with this damned rain.”

Juliette laughs. “You are a very talented napper, that is true.”

“You did fall asleep sitting in the chair last night, Papa,” Henri says solemnly, as if he could not imagine such a thing, though he is not so far an age from needing an afternoon nap each day.

Juliette, Francois, Henri, and Estelle step into the main sitting room, followed by Alexandre with Jean-Luc in his arms, and Claire following behind.

“I didn’t expect all of you at once.” Raoul gets up from the floor, pressing Simone’s hand and supposing she’ll have to find out what it was later.

Something niggles at the back of her brain.

Erik niggles. Specifically.

_Twelve-year-olds are capable of subterfuge._

God, she really doesn’t need that man’s cynicism in her head. Not when she has a broken-hearted child in front of her.

“A happy accident,” Juliette says, coming up and kissing Raoul’s cheek before turning toward Simone. “Hello. You must be Simone. I’m Juliette, Raoul’s sister. This is Alexandre, my brother-in-law. His wife, my sister, I heard you’ve met already today.”

“Hello,” Simone squeaks, the color draining from her face, at, Raoul guesses, the sight of so many strangers when she’s overwhelmed and when she’s obviously been crying. “And yes. She brought me some dresses. I…I’m very grateful.”

“I’m so sorry about your mother,” Juliette continues, giving Simone a smile. “I lost my mother when I was fifteen, I know how hard it can be.”

Tears well in Simone’s eyes, and she nods, relaxing just a touch at Juliette’s words.

“I’d heard you’d taken in a young girl, Raoul,” Alexandre chimes in, letting Jean-Luc slide down from his grasp. “I just didn’t catch the name from Eloise. Pleased to meet you, mademoiselle.”

“You…you too, monsieur.” She stammers out an answer, before looking at Juliette. “And you, madame.”

“Very good.” Alexandre looks at Raoul. “I’m sorry to say that I won’t be able to stay. I have a last-minute supper with some men I’m doing business with this evening, and rather couldn’t get out of it, but since Eloise was already here I wanted to bring the children. Give Philippe my apologies.”

“Oh,” Raoul says. “I’m sorry to hear it. Eloise was telling me you were in the middle of making a new investment.”

Alexandre says he’ll leave the carriage for Eloise and hail a fiacre instead, tells his children to be good, and bids them all farewell. Simone looks no less pale, so Raoul takes her upstairs to Madeline, who promises to bring dinner up as soon as it’s ready. Claire, so very close to Simone’s age, seems put-out that she won’t be making a new friend tonight, content enough to play with Henri as she usually does once they send the younger three children upstairs.

There’s a lull before dinner, an awkwardness Raoul can’t push away. Juliette and Philippe sit together on the settee speaking in low voices, while Francois and Eloise swap stories about their children.

“Tantine?” Estelle asks, coming over to Raoul’s chair and sitting on the arm. “Are you all right?”

Raoul looks up, studying her niece a moment, and thinking what a difference there is between thirteen and fifteen, even if two years is not so much, in the grand scheme of things. Not even ten years older than Estelle, Raoul feels more like an older sister than an aunt, in this case.

“Just lost in thought,” Raoul admits, pressing a kiss to Estelle’s cheek. “Thank you for asking. You’re getting quite good at the piano, you know. You’re going to have to let me teach you some violin, some day.”

Estelle smiles, blushing a little. “Christine is a wonderful teacher. I asked Maman if you might teach me fencing, as well, and she said _maybe_.”

Raoul winks. “I have a way with your mother, we’ll work on it.”

She excuses herself, because one person is still missing from the party.

Christine.

She goes upstairs, finding Christine absent from their sitting room and rapping softly on the half-closed door to their bedroom, a sniffle punctuating the silence before Christine calls out her assent.

“Oh, Raoul.” Christine puts a hand to her chest, a half-smile sliding across her slips. “You needn’t knock, these are your rooms too.”

Raoul strides across the room before sitting down next to her wife on their bed, noticing something clasped in Christine’s hand.

The miniature of Gustave she keeps on her nightstand. It’s the only image she has of her father, and it’s no larger than something that might fit in a locket.

“Darling.” Raoul’s hand goes to Christine’s back. “Are you all right?”

“Yes.” Christine wipes some tears away, taking Raoul’s other hand. “I’m sorry, I just…talking with Simone made me miss my father. And we’ve been around Erik so much that he was already on my mind even more than usual, and I only know how Simone feels.”

“I know. I know you do.”

A memory of Gustave appears in Raoul’s head, a memory of a night when they were in the attic that second summer when they were adolescents, and Raoul yet the only orphan. She recalls the heat that year, making them sweat while they relived their childish games from the May when they met, telling stories as Gustave played violin late into the night, interspersed as the notes were with sharp, raspy, sometimes bloody coughs.

“We must take care of her, Raoul,” Christine says, sidling closer so she’s tight against Raoul’s side. “Whatever that may mean.”

It is, of course, unlikely, that any man pretending to be the Angel of Music will appear again to take advantage of Simone the same way Erik took advantage of Christine, but there are myriad ways for a young, poor, girl without family to suffer in the world. Grief has been with Raoul since she was born, grief over the mother she never knew, grief resting with a pinching little pain just behind her breastbone when she saw other girls with their mothers. Then, deep into her childhood, yet more came when her father died after his heart gave out suddenly one day, taking them all by surprise. She’ll never forget that shock and the way it pulsed against her bones, drawing forth nausea so strong she was convinced she would vomit. Motherless as they were, it was part of what drew Raoul to Christine in the first place. She longed for the sort of relationship Christine and Gustave had with her own father, who did, perhaps without realizing, always think of his dead wife when he looked at his youngest child. He was kind to her but distant, as if he was never entirely sure what to make of her. Sometimes he would put her on his lap and read to her, but more often he was behind the door in his study, not wanting her underfoot. Or perhaps it was just that she was a girl, and he favored his son as many men of his stature do. Juliette and Eloise always seemed to imply that they were closer with the mother Raoul never knew.

But Raoul was never without family, without safety, without even parental figures, like Simone is. Like Christine was, aside from the formidable Madame Giry. There was always a warm bed. Always money aplenty. Always a home. And of course, always Juliette. Always Philippe.

Philippe.

Raoul misses him, even as she lives under the same roof.

“We will,” Raoul promises. “Don’t worry about that.” She shifts, turning Christine’s face toward hers with just the tips of her fingers. “I love you.”

Her words stick in her throat. She says these words every day, but sometimes, just looking at Christine makes Raoul’s soul soar. Christine, who trusted Raoul with her broken heart.

Raoul hopes she’s given it the care it deserves. Right now, she feels so inadequate, so frustrated that it tarnishes her memories, the things she knows about herself, her nerves winning arguments with her spirit.

And yet, here she is, spending every other day with the man who caused it all in the first place.

Christine kisses the bridge of Raoul’s nose. “I love you. Did Simone come upstairs to eat?”

Raoul nods. “She seemed like she wanted to tell me something, but everyone coming in spooked her. Hopefully she’ll be willing to talk later.”

They go downstairs, and Raoul hopes she won’t leave the dinner table having fought with one of her siblings.

Tonight, she’s not sure her heart can take it. 

* * *

Supper proceeds as normal, somehow.

At least, mostly normal, though Raoul’s sure there are more pauses and lulls and less laughter than usual, but no arguments. The other children come running downstairs from their own supper, and Raoul swings Jean-Luc up into her arms while Henri and Claire beg her to read aloud to them, with voices.

She agrees, but just as she’s about to start, Madeline comes rushing in.

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” Madeline says. “But Simone is missing.”

“Missing?” Raoul asks. “What do you mean?”

“She’s not in her room,” Madeline clarifies. “And I searched upstairs in your rooms, in the library…she wasn’t anywhere.”

“Oh my god.” Christine covers her mouth with her hand before looking over at Raoul, like there might not be anyone else in the room. “The opera. Do you think she might have gone to the opera?”

“Let’s search the house once more,” Juliette suggests. “Just to be sure. Francois, mon amour, can you ready the carriage, just in case? Ours, since it’s outside and ready.”

The rest of them search the house.

Nothing in the library.

Nothing in Philippe’s study.

Nothing in any guest bedroom.

Nothing in Raoul and Christine’s room.

Nothing in the kitchen or the smaller downstairs parlor or the nursery.

Nothing nothing _nothing_.

“Perhaps she ran back to her old flat,” Philippe suggest, watching as Raoul tosses on her coat, Christine handing her a scarf to keep her throat warm in the cold before putting on her own. “It doesn’t have to be the opera.”

“It doesn’t have to be,” Raoul answers, knowing she sounds impatient. “But it may be. We’ll check the flat after.”

Something cold shoots down her spine. Foreboding. Dread.

“But…” Philippe tries, desperate, as if he cannot bear to have them set foot near the opera when the sun is down.

“She went to the opera to feel safe before,” Christine cuts in, shrugging on her coat. “I feel she probably has again.”

Christine’s interruption seems to startle Philippe enough that he doesn’t argue again, but he does come with them. Francois does too, when Juliette whispers something in his ear, and she stays behind, waiting with Eloise in case Simone comes back.

Raoul picks up her sword cane before they go.

The opera looks ominous in the dark, the broken windows boarded up, and the front door, thankfully, temporarily fixed. Francois agrees to wait by the carriage should anything strange happen, and Philippe comes in with them. A chill permeates the air, deep and damp from the earlier drizzle. They go in the side door, and Christine immediately turns one of the electric lamps, a small amount of light spilling into the grand entrance. Raoul wishes, abruptly, that they had more of these throughout the opera.

“There’s some candles in the office, it’s easier than fiddling with the gas lamps backstage,” Raoul mutters, and for a moment, she fears the darkness might swallow her whole. 

She hates the dark, and it’s so quiet in here. She reassures herself that there is activity aplenty outside, though of course, that didn’t stop any thing from happening the night of Don Juan, every horror sealed inside this place and its depths.

She doesn’t like that she’s starting to fear her the opera again. Not after they made it theirs. She won’t give into it. She won’t.

She takes Christine’s hand after each of them have a candle, and they make their way through the most likely places in the opera.

Nothing in the grand hall.

Nothing in the managers’ office.

Nothing in Christine’s dressing room.

Nothing in the old dressing room.

Nothing, _nothing_ but darkness and the echoing, ghostly sounds of their own footsteps and the sense that this place really might be haunted, even if Erik is gone.

There’s nothing.

At least, until they check the theater itself, and there, on stage, is something.

The small, crumpled form of a girl.

Raoul runs, but Christine runs, first.

Philippe calls out to them with one look up at the chandelier, as though afraid it will come crashing down on their heads, and there is something within these walls, some feeling of danger left behind.

The lights on the new chandelier flicker.

Or is that just in Raoul’s head?

Christine gets to her knees next to Simone and Raoul does too, seconds later, Blood seeps from a wound at the crown of her head, smeared across the stage and staining her light brown hair. Her right arm is bent at an odd angle too. Broken, no doubt.

What _happened?_

“Simone, dear?” Christine asks, though she doesn’t prod. “Simone can you hear us?”

There’s no answer.

“She’s breathing,” Raoul says. “She’s alive, she’s just unconscious, I think.”

Raoul expects the panic to come, she expects it to swell up in her chest and make her ill.

Only, it doesn’t.

A strange calm comes instead. A clear head. A forced numbness, of sorts. Philippe steps up onto the stage, picking up something from the floor near Simone’s head. Something stained with blood.

A note.

Of course.

Philippe unfolds it with a shaking hand, reading the words aloud, as something echoes, somewhere. A creak. A footstep real or imagined.

_I warned you, did I not? That next time there would be more than some broken glass?_

_I’m a man of my word, I think you’ll find, Raoul._

_You owe me 30,000 francs._

_O.G._

The use of the first name strikes Raoul. Before, it was always _Mademoiselle de Chagny_.

She remembers the way Erik said it just yesterday. The way it hit her in the chest, to hear it on his lips. Old fears, old instincts rise to the surface, even as that cold calm settles into her bones.

It’s not him. She knows it isn’t.

She knows this person. She hears a familiarity in the cadence of these words, but she can’t put her finger on why.

“We need to get her home,” Christine says, looking over at Philippe, who’s still holding the letter in his hands and staring. “Philippe, could you carry her?”

For a moment, Philippe doesn’t reply. He just searches the shadows of the opera house like he’s never been more haunted, like he’s searching for secrets or answers or some kind of sign.

Like he’s searching for the opera ghost. The first one.

Erik left his marks on Philippe even if they never came face-to-face, and no small part of Raoul feels guilty at the idea that she’s spending time with the man, even if for her own purposes. He _is_ different, at least for now, but how to explain that to her brother, when her own emotions toward him vary from day to day? What he did to her, to Christine, affected her deeply, and there’s no denying it. She’s still suffering the effects of his actions. She’s still managing the scars he left on her, body and soul. 

“Philippe?” Raoul questions. “Did you hear?”

Philippe jolts, touching the arm that Erik broke briefly before doing as Christine asked, carefully hoisting Simone up into his arms.

Raoul holds Simone, in the carriage. She holds her and remembers what it was like for her riding home in a carriage, the bumps in the street making everything hurt worse. Everything was a haze that night, and she wondered if she would die before she even reached her bed.

Simone doesn’t wake up. She’s breathing, but she doesn’t wake up.

They get her home. Philippe’s driver rides for Dr. Aubert. Raoul wishes fleetingly for Marcel, but he doesn’t live in the house, and he’s long gone home for the day since they didn’t require him. Francois takes all the children back to his and Juliette’s home, saying he’ll wait for word and leave with Eloise’s housekeeper, should Alexandre still be out.

Juliette and Eloise stay.

Christine sits in when Dr. Aubert arrives in case Simone wakes up, and Raoul, not wanting to crowd, goes down the hall toward the library. She doesn’t know why she goes there, she only knows that it brings her comfort of some kind. She used to spend more time in here, before she was busy at the opera and with Christine, passing lazy afternoons reading before evenings out. She sits down in the armchair she likes, resting her head in her hands.

“Raoul, _ma petite_ ,” Juliette says softly, standing beside the chair and putting her hand on Raoul’s back. “It’s all right.”

The lies she’s been telling, the truth brims to Raoul’s lips at the sweet sound of Juliette’s words. She wants to tell her sister the truth. She wants to tell her about Erik and going down to the depths of the opera and facing the hell that’s haunted her for over a year. She wants to say _please help me_ and _why does someone else hate me this much?_

She wants to cry. She feels the pressure building behind her eyes. She can’t. She can’t right now. She must be strong for Simone.

“Raoul,” Philippe asks. “Do you want your tea?”

“No,” Raoul snaps, hating hating _hating_ the question, hating that her brother won’t just let her feel this out, that he always has to offer the damned herbal tea like it will solve all her problems.

Philippe speaks again, oddly not giving in to her mood.

“Raoul…” he tries, in a worn-out, shaken, angry voice. Anger that doesn’t suit the moment and he’s hiding something too, isn’t he? But what? What could he be hiding from her? His anxiety problems, his nerves, are no longer a secret, though the advice he gives to her he does not take himself. Sometimes she thinks he can no longer tell the difference between these heightened nerves she’s struggled with and simple human emotion that anyone might have in response to something distressing. She knows the difference. She knows the difference between the way she might cry after something upsetting, the way she wants to cry _now_ , and the way those nerves seize her out of what seems like nowhere, making her lose her breath and stealing her sleep. She’d rather the normal crying, all things considered.

Raoul tears her hands from her hair, mussing it as she picks her head up. “Don’t, Philippe.”

“You don’t know what I was going to say.”

She stares him down, and Eloise, still in the doorway behind their brother, stays put. “I do know. You were going to say we need the police. Did you not see how they treated me, yesterday?”

Philippe sets his jaw. “This is about more than you and Christine and the opera house,” he argues. “This is more important. This is violence. Physical harm.”

Raoul stands up, not heeding Juliette’s noise of concern. “I know that. But do you truly think they won’t suspect me, after all of this? That they won’t try and accuse me of the broken windows and what happened to Simone?”

“Raoul…”

Philippe says her name again, and he says it in a way she just can’t bear. Like she’s burdening him.

He’s never sounded like that before.

“They’ll just drag us into the muck again.” Raoul turns away from her brother, resting a hand on one of the bookshelves. “The papers. The gossip. They’ll all be watching, and still it won’t help us solve this. What did the police do for us, before? Nothing. They did nothing. If not for Christine I would be dead.”

“Raoul,” Juliette chides her a little, and Raoul _feels_ chided, like a child. She isn’t a child.

“They won’t accuse a de Chagny of these things,” Philippe protests, softening a touch, though he doesn’t come near, he doesn’t touch her should like he normally might. “They wouldn’t dare.”

Raoul spins around, and she doesn’t understand how _he_ doesn’t understand. “They wouldn’t accuse you, perhaps. Or Juliette or Eloise, but they would accuse me. Some people are looking for a reason to accuse me of anything because they have it their heads that being like me is immoral. That’s why I had to work so hard at the opera, don’t you see? My name is not more important than the reasons people have for wanting to cast me out.”

Raoul thinks of the past year. She thinks of the opera rehearsals and nights in Monmartre and how happy she was. How accepted she felt. Her heart ached, sometimes. Her nerves would come, and so would nightmares, but she felt herself healing. She felt it, and now everything feels like it’s crumbling down around her ears, and her brother, her beloved brother, is pulling his hand away. She knows she’s lying but god, what would he do, if she told the truth?

“You support me,” Raoul continues, swiping away a few tears as they fall. “But that does not mean you can protect me from everything. You need to listen to me about this.”

Philippe reaches for Raoul’s hand, enclosing it in his own. “I _am_ listening, but this is…” he lowers his voice. “Someone tried to kill that little girl. They’ll try and kill you next and neither of us are trained in looking for violent criminals. We are not police inspectors.”

“Those inspectors didn’t help me!” Raoul shouts, her voice breaking as she pulls her hand back even as it breaks her heart. “And that one this morning was willing to condemn me already. He thought I caused the damage at the opera sight unseen.”

Fear pulses against Raoul’s skin. She hates being afraid, but these words spilling out are real, they’re true, and she hasn’t had much time to think of this new ghost setting her up to take the fall, but he could, and it wouldn’t be difficult. Her, or Christine. Both.

“All right,” Juliette comes up, putting a hand on Raoul’s shoulder. “Fighting right now won’t help, let’s just wait and see what Dr. Aubert says about Simone before we do anything else.”

Philippe shakes his head. “It’s that damn fiend from before. I know it’s him. Can’t you see it, Raoul?”

Raoul meets Philippe’s eye, because if she doesn’t, she’ll give herself away for sure. “It’s not, Philippe. This isn’t….whatever terrible things he did, he never tried to kill a child.”

Philippe blinks back tears of his own. “He tried to kill you.”

Those words hit Raoul in the chest, but there isn’t time to respond.

“Here comes Christine now,” Eloise says, interrupting any new argument, and Raoul gives Juliette a small smile before slipping from her grasp and rushing over to Christine.

“Darling.” Raoul takes Christine’s hands, finding them cold and hoping her grasp might warm them. “What’s happening?”

“She’s awake.” Christine presses Raoul’s fingers, and that feels like home, and it makes Raoul’s chest hurt less. “Barely. Dr. Aubert says she has a concussion, and a very badly broken arm. She’s in rather a lot of pain, and she isn’t terribly aware.”

They all follow Christine back into the guest room where Simone’s staying, finding her with a bandage wrapped around her head and her arm set and in a sling. Raoul sits gingerly on the side of the bed, bidding hello to Dr. Aubert before focusing on Simone.

“Miss….Raoul? Is that…is that you?” Simone asks, her words slow and slurred. She looks around the room, tensing, though at what, exactly Raoul doesn’t know, but it could be anything, given she’s both been orphaned and attacked in a matter of days.

“I’m very glad you’re awake,” Raoul says, gentle as can be, a pang deep resounding in her chest. Simone’s been such a part of their new life at the opera, such a mainstay, that Raoul hadn’t realized, perhaps, how much she’d come to care for the shy but bright-eyed little girl. “Do you know who did this to you?”

Simone shakes her head, her body sinking against the pillows as if she’s too exhausted to speak.

“We’ll need to let her rest,” Dr. Aubert cuts in. “I’m going to give her some medication, and then I’ll met you downstairs, all right?”

Raoul agrees, running her hand down Simone’s cheek before she goes. Christine adjusts the blankets, and Madeline agrees to stay while they all speak with Dr. Aubert.

“Gaps in memory sometimes occur when people hit their heads,” Dr. Aubert says once they’re all downstairs. “And it seems someone knocked her head against something, and rather hard as well, especially given how long she was unconscious. That arm will take two months and more likely three to heal—it was quite a break.”

“She’ll be all right?” Raoul asks.

“I believe so,” Dr. Aubert answers. “But she will be in and out over the next few days, given the amount of pain she’s in. She may remember more, but I wouldn’t prod too much at first although…” he pauses, cautious, as ever, not to pry. “Well I understand you may want to know who did this, but time will have to tell. I’ll come back first thing in the morning, to check-in on her.”

He leaves instructions behind him. Juliette and Eloise decide to stay the night. Philippe lingers in the doorway of the guest room as Raoul and Christine take up residence on the chaise lounge in the corner, not wishing for Simone to wake up alone.

“You’ll be all right here?” Philippe asks, not bringing up their earlier encounter in the library, and doesn’t, much to Raoul’s relief, say another word about the police.

Raoul looks at him, and she smiles, but it’s heavy and he looks sad, and she can’t carry it all, tonight.

“We’ll be all right.” 

She certainly is _not_ all right, however.

Raoul sits against the back of the chaise lounge with Christine tucked between her knees, heaving a great sigh as she hooks her chin over Christine’s shoulder, the two of them leaning cheek to cheek. Christine smells like roses. Christine feels safe and warm and steady, and some of the tension in Raoul’s neck releases, though there’s a crick in it that feels as if it might never go away.

“We have to get to Ismael’s tomorrow,” Christine whispers as she takes Raoul’s hand, their fingers laced together. “I never thought I would say it, but I think only he and Erik can help us figure this out now.”

They talk late into the night as Simone sleeps in the bed just a few feet away, a line from the note ringing through Raoul’s head.

 _I’m a man of my word._

* * *

The next day finds Meg at their door.

A rather distressed Meg.

Given the presence of all three older de Chagny siblings, Raoul and Christine take Meg up to the sitting room in their suite, closing—and locking—the door behind them.

“Meg,” Christine says, thinking she knows what this might be about. “What’s the matter?”

“Maman said…” Meg struggles, tears in her eyes and strain in her voice like she doesn’t want to accuse them of anything. “…she said that…” she looks around the room, lowering her voice. “…that _he_ said that you might be suspicious of Laurent. That he saw someone who could be him leaving the opera house the night the windows were broken.”

Erik. Of course he couldn’t keep it to himself. Whatever changes he’s made, and he has made them, she’s not surprised by this. Not if he thinks he’s right.

Christine slides her hands into Meg’s “He…” she takes Meg’s lead, not saying Erik’s name in case they’re overheard. “He did suggest that, but I didn’t think it true, and didn’t want to upset you with it unless there was proof.”

There’s a long pause, and Raoul, her face a rather concerning, sickly shade, speaks.

“ _Do_ you happen to know where he was that night, Meg?”

“Raoul,” Christine chides.

“I’m sorry.” Raoul holds up her hands, smiling in apology at Meg. “Just, after what happened with Simone…”

“Laurent was with me, that night Erik saw whoever it was come out of the opera. I was at his flat, having wine, but wait, what happened with Simone?” Meg asks, her face falling. “Is she all right?”

In all the chaos, they didn’t have time, last night, to send a message to Meg, and were only just going about it when she arrived this morning. They did send one to Andre and Ismael, directing them to convene at Ismael’s today as soon as was possible. They also sent one to Carlotta, to keep her informed, and Christine has no doubt that a gift of some sort will arrive at their door soon, if not Carlotta herself.

Christine does breathe a sigh of relief, though, when she hears that Laurent was with Meg. She didn’t believe him to be the culprit, and she knows that Meg would not lie to her, not when she has been so recently lied to herself. Not ever, really, about anything that mattered, but especially not now.

“She slipped out last night,” Christine tells her. “And went to the opera. Whoever is behind all this attacked her. Or someone working with him, though it seemed like the person himself. She has a head injury and a broken arm.”

Meg clasps her hand to her mouth. “That’s terrible. Why did she leave? Did she say who attacked her?”

Raoul shakes her head. “Our only guess is she was overwhelmed. And she said she can’t remember, or is, perhaps, too afraid to say. We’re not sure which. She woke for a brief while this morning, though she’s back asleep now.”

“Poor thing,” Meg whispers. She studies both of them, her brief irritation at the suspicion of Laurent vanished. “Are you both all right? If I’d known last night I would have come straight here.”

“We’re as well as we can be,” Christine replies, meeting Raoul’s eye. “But we need to get to the bottom of this.”

“Who’s next?” Meg asks. “To talk to?”

“Going on his sighting,” Raoul says, again not speaking Erik’s name inside these walls, at least not during the light of day. “Adrien and Jacques. I asked Eloise if she knew of any criminal activity on Jacques’ part, and she said no. Adrien was sent to us by Firmin and…well although this seems a bit much on Firmin’s part, he never did like us very much. I don’t know. I don’t know, there’s no one I can think who both dislikes me this way, and who needs money this desperately. I suppose either could have been hired by anyone, and willing to do it for the money. Or maybe it’s not them at all. It’s maddening.”

 _There’s no one I can think of_. Those are the words that scare Christine the most. The idea of someone in the shadows, someone willing to do what they did to Simone, and no doubt willing to do the the same—worse—to Raoul.

When they finally retired from Simone’s room to their own last night, Christine had nightmares again. Old ones, of Raoul in a noose, even if Erik isn’t the perpetrator, this time.

Still, that note last night.

It feels familiar and she doesn’t know why.

They check-in on Simone once more, leaving her in the care of Madeline. They tell Philippe, Juliette, and Eloise that they’re going to pick up Raoul’s violin—taken to the shop for repair a week ago—before going to meet Andre to oversee some of the work being done on the opera windows.

Not a lie, entirely. Just not the entire truth.

Philippe, much to Christine’s surprise, doesn’t argue.

Juliette does follow them to the door, and she tugs on Christine’s hand as Raoul and Meg put their coats on just out of earshot.

“I don’t want to pry,” Juliette whispers. “But Raoul looks terribly pale this morning. Is she all right? She’s not talking to us like she normally does.”

“She didn’t sleep well,” Christine admits, because Juliette has been her friend, her sister, ever since she said _I do_ to Raoul. “But…” she lowers her voice further. “…I don’t want to say this, but Philippe is pressuring her and it…”

“I’ll speak with him,” Juliette promises. “Be careful out there, please? I’d ask both of you to be home before dark.”

Christine nods but doesn’t swear anything, unwilling to do something that might break a promise to Juliette.

Marcel drives them to the opera first, finding Andre there, and the workers replacing the first of the windows. They go pick up Raoul’s violin next, before retrieving Madame Giry, and then, finally, by mid-afternoon they’re at Ismael’s. They don’t want to stay gone too long given Simone’s condition, so they get down to business as soon as they’ve caught Ismael and Erik up on everything.

“I think we need to speak with Adrien and Jacques as soon as possible,” Ismael says, looking grimmer than Christine’s yet seen him. “Tomorrow, if we can manage it.”

“I can try and summon them,” Raoul answers, tilting her head. “We?”

“I think we should risk having myself join you and Andre.” Ismael frowns as the dying sunlight comes in through the slit in the curtains. “I’ve questioned more than a few people in my time, and if it’s one of these two men helping whoever is behind this, I have experience in being able to tell. You can say I’m a private investigator.”

They didn’t do this before because they feared Philippe would find out, but Christine can tell from the slump of Raoul’s shoulders that she can’t give that fear credence, anymore. Not after what happened to Simone.

“We shouldn’t do it in the opera house,” Raoul answers, those words serving as an agreement. “I hate to say it, but it seems too dangerous.”

“I have an office in my flat,” Andre suggests. “We can do it there, if that suits.”

That’s agreed upon, and Erik opens his mouth, but Ismael cuts him off.

“You may not come, Erik.”

Erik sighs, and the drama of it almost makes Christine laugh.

“I am the best here at intimidation,” Erik complains. “You can’t deny it.”

Ismael’s lips twitch. “True, but you are also a wanted criminal. Let’s not risk it.”

There’s a space. A pause. Ismael gets up, going to the kitchen to retrieve some tea and possible pastries, Madame Giry following behind him to help. An awkwardness falls over the room, and for once it’s Erik who breaks it.

Sort of.

“I see you have your violin,” he says to Raoul, pointing at the instrument in question, kept safe in its case.

“Yes, it needed some repairs.” Raoul speaks the words slowly, with a touch of suspicion. “Why?”

Erik folds his hands in his lap, sitting up straight, and he looks…

Christine supposes she would call it nervous. She’s never really seen him look nervous before.

“I’ve written a piece of music, recently.” Erik clears his throat. “With the violin in mind.”

Tension twists up in Christine’s spine, but there’s something in Erik’s voice, something real, something true, something that isn’t that smoothness from before, the way his voice could make her mind go blank, somehow.

Raoul’s hand covers hers.

“Are you…” Raoul quirks an eyebrow. “Are you asking me to play something?”

“I…” Erik stumbles over his words, and that surprises Christine even more. “I suppose so.”

“You suppose?” Raoul asks.

Erik’s hand clenches over the arm of his chair, his eyes darting toward Christine before going back to Raoul. “Fine, yes, I am asking. I don’t have a violin here, and it’s not my best instrument, besides. It doesn’t have lyrics yet.” He looks at Christine again, almost in apology, though she’s not sure she’s ready, yet, to sing any song for Erik. She’s not sure she ever will be.

Raoul glances at Christine, searching for permission. Christine nods, and Erik goes to retrieve the music from his room while Raoul takes the violin out of its case.

“What a bizarre man,” Meg mutters. “God, I only hope it isn’t a thing like Don Juan, or we’ll need to all promise to leave.”

Madame and Ismael come back in with tea and pastries, both appearing nervous when they’re told what’s happening, though neither argue. Raoul hands Christine the violin while she takes the bow out of the case, and Christine runs her hand across the familiar instrument, remembering how much her father loved it, and how much he loved Raoul, in turn. Erik brings out the sheet music he’s written, all of it perfectly legible and neat, and Christine suspects he must have re-written it to make it so, given the quick glance she got of the music in his lair, all messy and frenzied. He stands in front of them, dressed as ever in mostly black, and gives the paper to Raoul before dashing back over to his chair like a schoolboy who’s just handed in something he’s proud of to his teacher.

Christine loses her breath a little when she sees the title.

_A Ballad of Two Roses._

Did he…did he write this for them?

Raoul tunes her violin and Christine holds the music, studying the notes. It’s written in A minor, which is specific to her own tastes, something she remembers once telling Erik during a lesson. Raoul looks at her, unsure, and Christine gives her a smile. However anxious this makes her, whatever memories it threatens to draw forth, part of her wants Erik to hear Raoul play. To finally, really appreciate that she loves music, too.

Raoul tucks the violin under her chin and draws the bow across, the first few notes piercing the air, and Christine’s heart.

It is not, altogether, a negative feeling. In fact, even as old pain takes root in her chest, she still allows herself to appreciate the beauty of Erik’s music.

This sounds nothing like Don Juan.

Raoul stumbles over a note or two out of nerves and unfamiliarity, but Erik doesn’t critique her. In fact he’s watching her with a glimmer of intrigue in his eyes as the song goes on, joy bouncing off the edges of the melancholy notes. The sun gives one final gasp outside the window, a red-gold light glinting off Raoul’s violin as Christine loses herself in the song.

It sounds like her and like Raoul. Like the two of them together.

There aren’t any lyrics, but she starts humming audibly, just enough to be heard, and Erik’s looking at her, she feels him looking at her, as the song comes to an end. Raoul’s eyes are wet, though she wipes them quickly as she puts her violin down, handing the music back over to Erik.

“That’s a lovely piece,” Raoul says, Erik’s fingertips brushing hers as he takes the paper.

“Thank you. It made me think of….” The visible part of Erik’s face turns red. “You play well.” His voice turns into more of that familiar grumble. “Christine’s accolades were for a reason, I see.”

“I am always true in my praise of music.” Christine presses Raoul’s hand, and she gives Erik a smile, a real one, for the first time since another life. It’s not a cleansing of his sins, but it is something. “That was a pretty piece, Erik. Thank you.”

Erik nods, and Christine’s grateful that he doesn’t say anything more, because the tumult of emotions in the pit of her stomach might make any response difficult. She doesn’t know what to do with this moment of softness among the horror of what they’re currently facing, especially when that softness is coming from a man who once trapped them in horror not so long ago. This new ghost is attempting to mirror the old one, is attempting to use that legend, though it feels so very different.

Given it’s past dark already, Raoul and Christine take their leave. Andre, Meg, and Madame Giry go with them, the three of climbing into the carriage. Raoul and Christine are about to follow suit when there’s the sound of footsteps, and then Erik’s voice behind them.

“You should take this with you,” he says, stepping out into the street, one of the gas lamps accentuating his mask, even if he’s wearing his wide-brimmed hat. “I have another copy that I can use to add lyrics.”

He hesitates, then hands the music out to Christine, and she can’t help but recall that night in the lair when he gave her another piece, hastily, urgently, with desperation and not enough care. She sent that piece out to sea because it was about him and her and she couldn’t bear it.

But this is a gift, isn’t it? An offering for her and for Raoul.

“I want you to have it,” he continues, gruff, but vulnerable. His eyes flick to Raoul. “Both of you.”

Christine takes it, and Raoul gives Erik a nod before they’re off again, needing to take Andre, and then Meg and Madame Giry home before they can return to the de Chagny house. There’s another carriage close behind their own for a short while, and for a moment, Christine worries, but then it turns down another street.

Marcel has them at their front door in three-quarters of an hour, and bids them goodnight. It’s just six or so now, and not too far after dark—Juliette’s requested time for them to be home.

“Strange night.” Raoul scratches the back of her neck as they stand on the stoop, tucking a hair that’s fallen from her chignon behind her ear before taking Christine’s hand like she doesn’t want to go inside her own house.

The breeze kicks up, the crackling leaves in shades of red and yellow and orange swirling up into the air as Raoul tugs at the collar of her navy tweed bustle coat, bringing it closer against her neck.

“Very.” Christine pulls Raoul’s hand toward her, pressing a kiss to the knuckles. “But interesting. You’re brave, you know?”

Raoul blushes in that endearing way of hers. “You are too.”

They finally go through the front door, met immediately by Philippe’s voice calling out to them.

Angrily. With heat.

“Raoul!” he all but shouts. “Christine! Is that you?”

They come into the sitting room after they take their coats off, finding Philippe with Juliette and Eloise, who must not have left. And there’s another man, as well. A man Christine doesn’t recognize in the slightest, though he stands away from them, like he’s ready to make haste for the door. He doesn’t look like a police inspector, but then, Christine can’t be sure.

“We’re right here,” Raoul says. “What on earth is the matter? Is Simone all right?”

Philippe furrows his brow, rubbing at his moustache. “Sit down. Both of you.”

Christine jolts at his tone. The rage in it.

“Philippe, is Simone _all right_?” Raoul presses.

“She’s well, she’s asleep upstairs,” Philippe answers, lowering his voice. “Sit down. Right now.”

“Philippe…”

“Sit _down_ , Raoul!”

Raoul stays where she is, stepping closer to Christine but not taking her hand, assumedly because of the stranger in the room. Philippe’s in one of the armchairs, Juliette oddly further away by the fire with Eloise next to her. Juliette purses her lips when she looks at Raoul, but she’s pointedly _not_ looking at Philippe, all at once.

“What’s going on?” Raoul turns toward Juliette. “Juliette, what?”

“Please sit down,” Juliette says, in a much more cool-headed tone, but there’s a stiffness to it. “We all need to talk.”

Christine puts her hand discreetly on the small of Raoul’s back, urging her toward the settee, Juliette’s calmer voice having more effect than Philippe’s anger.

“We were just with Andre,” Raoul replies. “What on earth have we done for any of you to be angry about?”

“Lying to us again.” Philippe shakes his head. “We know where the two of you have been, and you’re going to explain to us why. Right now. You keep telling me you can do things on your own, and then you put yourself in this kind of danger, willingly.”

Every muscle in Christine’s body coils up tight, and she fears they might rip apart if she moves too fast.

Oh _no_.

Raoul laughs, but in a strangely high-pitched, nervous kind of way, like she didn’t even mean to do it. “What are you talking about? And who is that man?”

Philippe leans forward, his face going red even as tears prick his eyes, and he looks Raoul dead in the face.

“I know you’ve been seeing the opera ghost. And I know because that man is a private investigator, and I hired him to follow you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the cliffhanger! I couldn't help myself. And thank you to the lovely 4beit on Tumblr for helping me with some of the medical aspects of this chapter.


	10. They Are Said to Adore Each Other

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things inside the de Chagny house reach a fever pitch as Raoul and Philippe argue. Feeling as though their world is slipping through their fingers, Raoul and Christine find comfort in each other.

Someone stabbed her.

Someone _stabbed_ her.

Raoul feels certain they must have.

A sharp pain throbs between her ribs, like the tip of a knife might be stuck between them.

She sucks in a breath and that only makes it hurt _more_ , her hands going to her knees as she leans over, willing herself not to vomit. Christine’s hand is on her back, and out of the corner of her eye, she sees Philippe reach forward.

She shoots up.

“Do not…” she seethes, saying the next words to her brother for the first time in her entire life. “…touch me, Philippe.”

“Raoul,” Philippe tries, and he’s softer and she can’t _stand_ it.

“If you want to talk to me.” Raoul cuts him off. “If you want the _truth_ , then send that man…” she points at the private investigator. “…out of here.”

“Raoul,” Philippe tries again.

“I will leave this house for the night, Philippe. That, at the least, is within my power. Christine and I will go to Meg’s. We will go to a hotel. We will not have this conversation with a stranger present.”

Philippe gets out of his chair, gesturing at the investigator and talking in a low voice with him as he shows him to the door. Raoul squeezes Christine’s hand and gets up from the settee, pacing back and forth across the floor in front of it, but not straying far. The fire crackles nearby and it sounds loud, and her breaths are shallow, and she cannot do this, now. She cannot let that panic swell up and overcome her. She takes a deep breath, and the anger burns the panic away, somewhat. The shock. She runs her hand through her hair, tousling it irreparably as several strands come loose from the pins, before she spins around toward Juliette.

She’s never been angry at Juliette before. She honestly can’t recall a time where there was more than a passing annoyance, and even those she could count on one hand. Eloise, yes. Eloise _often_ , until recently. Even Philippe, sometimes. But not Juliette. Never Juliette.

Tears brim to Raoul’s eyes as she gazes at her sister. She wants to be calm. She wants to just be angry but this _hurts_.

“Please tell me you didn’t know about this, Juliette. I need to know that he didn’t tell you.”

“I didn’t know about the investigator until this afternoon when you were already gone,” Juliette says. “Philippe told Eloise and I then.”

“And did you tell Philippe that perhaps sending a man to stalk Christine and me in secret was perhaps the _worst_ thing he could have done?” Raoul looks at Christine, who’s gone pale, the pink gone from her cheeks. “Did he even _think_ about what he was doing?”

Juliette grasps the mantel tight with her fingers. “I told him immediately that I did not like it, and so did Eloise.” She casts a glance back at their sister. “But Raoul you have been lying to us. For days and days. What would possess you? It’s not like you at all.”

“When did the investigator find out we were seeing Erik?” Raoul asks. “How long did Philippe know?”

Juliette frowns, clearly not liking that her comment about the lying is going unanswered. “Just tonight, before you got home. That man had apparently caught you going to a residence several times, said he saw a Persian man leaving it, but that was it. That was all Philippe knew when he told Eloise and myself this afternoon. Then tonight the investigator saw that…” she takes in a breath, uncharacteristic rage in her voice, not at Raoul, but at Erik. “…that _man_ stepped out into the street. He saw his mask. And then it all made sense. As much as it possibly can make sense, why would both of you lie to us like this?”

Raoul isn’t given a chance to answer, because Philippe storms back in, and whatever his momentary softness a moment ago, he’s spoiling for a fight.

“You would go to that man for help!” Philippe shouts without ceremony, without warning, without another question. “You would go to that _monster_ , before you came to your own damned family?”

Raoul goes back to the settee, taking Christine’s hand in hers.

“We didn’t seek him out, Philippe,” Raoul argues, trying not to shout, trying trying _trying_ not to, for Christine’s sake. “That’s not how it happened.”

“Well then how did it damn well _happen_ , Raoul?” Philippe shouts again, his voice no less loud. “Explain it to me.”

“Philippe calm down,” Juliette cuts in, taking a step toward them and leaving a bewildered Eloise by the fire. “You have lied just as much as Raoul has, at this juncture.”

Philippe’s eyes widen. “It is not the same, Juliette,” he snaps, and Raoul’s certain she’s _never_ heard him sound like that with Juliette before. “You were just as angry with Raoul as I was before she arrived home.”

Juliette narrows her eyes, and there’s a disappointed air in her voice that strikes Raoul more than anger.

“Snap at me like that again, Philippe de Chagny,” Juliette shoots back. “And see where it gets you.”

“Do you honestly believe…” Christine finally speaks, and Raoul jumps at the unexpected sound of her voice. The steel in it when addressing Philippe. “…that I would seek Erik out after what he did to me? What he did to Raoul, most of all? This has not been easy, for either of us. But we wouldn’t be around him if we thought he would endanger us again. We’re smarter than that.”

“Neither of you is offering an explanation,” Philippe emphasizes, and he doesn’t shout, this time, because he never shouts at Christine directly. “I require one. This instant.”

“Ismael, the Persian man you saw, approached us,” Raoul says, thinking she might as well get this part out of the way. “When Meg was missing. He told us that Madame Giry was keeping her at his home, because his home was where Erik was staying, and Meg had discovered it. Madame Giry, as it turns out, knew Erik when he was younger and first in the opera, and she helped him get away from the mob, that night.”

“We were angry at her,” Christine adds, though her voice falters just a touch. A sign of her own nerves. “But she did not set out to hurt us, by maintaining a friendship with him. She overstepped that night, hiding Meg away like that.”

Philippe shakes head. “Something else both of you kept from me.”

“Do you want to know the truth or not?” Raoul asks, Christine squeezing her hand. “We’re trying to tell you.”

Philippe falls silent, pacing across the floor as Raoul did earlier, Christine’s eyes darting back and forth as he goes.

“We did not expect to see Erik there,” Raoul continues. “We did, and as Ismael, a former police detective, was offering to help, I insisted that Erik did too, as he owed us as much. No one knows the opera house like him. We found clues because of his assistance. But you’re always so eager to tell me what to do, recently, to treat me like I’m a fool, that no, I didn’t tell you, because I knew this is how you would react. Overblown and over done.”

Philippe stops dead in his tracks, turning to face Raoul with his hands behind his back. “Overblown?” His voice rises and Christine tenses and Raoul’s breath catches as the fire crackles in an over loud sort of way. Juliette opens her mouth, but can’t manage to get anything out before Philippe speaks again. “My reaction to you _gallivanting_ about with the man who tried to _murder_ you and who _kidnapped_ Christine is overblown?” He’s yelling now, and it echoes in the room and Raoul holds Christine’s hand tighter, feeling it shaking. “Your insolence is astounding, Raoul. Just utterly astounding! And we will see, if you set foot out of this house without an escort for some time.”

_Insolent girl._

It’s not what Philippe meant and she never told him, specifically, about that insult of Erik’s so he couldn’t know but…

He might as well have slapped her.

The word _insolence_ keeps ringing in her head and she can’t make it stop and she knows she shouldn’t say anything, she knows this is just her brother’s anxiety spinning out of control, but her rationality doesn’t win out.

Her temper does.

“I am of age, Philippe!” she shouts, standing up from the settee and letting go of Christine’s hand. “I have money that is not under your control. I run an opera house for god sakes, when will it ever be enough for you to stop treating me as if I was Estelle’s age!”

Philippe steps closer, enough for Raoul to hear his ragged breathing, to know that he’s upset but he’s letting it come out in anger, and that makes _her_ angry and panic comes up into her chest like sludge, slow-moving and numbed by the shock and the rage, and she can’t show it, not now.

“You are acting as if you are Estelle’s age!” Philippe shouts again, and close as he is, it rings in Raoul’s ears, mixing with the _insolence_ she hears over and over again.

“That’s enough, both of you,” Juliette says, upset cracking the edges of her words. “Raoul, Philippe, that’s enough now.”

Words force themselves up into Raoul’s mouth. Past her lips. She doesn’t even want to say them, but they come spilling out, anyway.

“I am not a child! I am not _your_ child.”

Philippe gives a full-body jerk, and those words silence him. Utterly.

And Raoul hears something in the quiet.

Christine’s ragged, quickened breathing.

Raoul turns around, immediately, slipping to her knees at Christine’s feet.

“Darling?” she asks, gently, carefully, because she sees that panic in Christine’s face, that panic she herself knows so well—the cold hands, the aching stomach, the shaking.

Christine takes Raoul’s hands in answer, and there’s a haunted looked in her eyes, a look that Raoul saw the day she received that first note. She didn’t know it then, but she knew later, that Erik shouted and shouted and shouted at Christine that very morning, scaring her beyond measure. Philippe is of course, far from being Erik, but the sight of a man shouting, the knowledge that a man was stalking them in the dark, well.

Raoul can imagine how that makes Christine feel.

“I’m taking her upstairs,” Raoul says firmly, and that draws Philippe out of his shock.

“We’re not done, Raoul. Not even close.”

“I’ll take her,” Juliette offers. “If that’s all right, Christine.”

Raoul’s grateful to Juliette for that, knowing that her sister is angry with her, still. Christine meets her eyes, looking for reassurance, looking to know that she isn’t abandoning Raoul to this, but Raoul knows that she needs to handle this with Philippe on her own. She won’t subject Christine to it when Christine is like this. She knows what that feels like better than anyone, that incessant sense of doom that won’t dissipate for up to an hour, sometimes.

She needs to talk to Philippe. Alone.

Raoul kisses Christine’s knuckles, letting her know it’s all right before Juliette leads her away, whispering something Raoul can’t hear as they go upstairs.

Raoul rounds on her brother, who stares at the empty staircase as Juliette and Christine disappear from sight.

“You upset her.” Raoul grits her teeth, angrier at her brother than she’s ever been in her life. “How dare you? How dare you shout and scream like this after you sent a man to follow us? Did you even _think_ about how Christine, of all people, would react to that? She’s not as fragile as you think but that is more than enough to cause her great pain. She is my wife, Philippe! And you owe her an apology.”

“I did not mean to upset Christine,” Philippe replies. “But you owe _me_ an apology. For lying. Over and over again. How dare _you_ , Raoul? I don’t even know who you are, right now.”

“Both of you are being stubborn,” Eloise cuts in, and Raoul had almost forgotten she was there. “Raoul, you knew you were lying to us. And Philippe, if you thought sending that man to follow them was right, you would have told at least Juliette the truth.”

A touch chastened by those words, perhaps, Philippe gestures at Raoul with two fingers. “My study, if you please.”

Raoul’s only been summoned to Philippe’s study like this three times before. Once at their house in Chagny, when she was twelve and argued with one of her tutors in the wake of her father’s death. A second time when she was fifteen, and said something too political at dinner, not long after she was allowed to eat with the adults when company came. Again when she was eighteen or so and foolishly kissed a girl at a party, and someone caught them. Lisette was her name, a friend who was just as eager to kiss her, and both of them let the wine chase away their judgement. Philippe didn’t shout at her the first time, or the third time—he did a little, the second time—only asking her to be more careful, to have better judgement, but there was something about the setting of the study that indicated a kind of gravitas.

Tonight, she has no patience for it. She has no patience for the charade of _I am your brother, I am the man, I am the head of this family._

None.

Philippe closes the door behind them, indicating the decanter of brandy on his desk. It’s an echo of the way he’s treated her like a brother in the past, drinking with her, smoking with her, letting her do as she will even though it’s far outside the expected norm, and seeming to forget, sometimes, that she is a woman. She was fine with that, really, except now all he does is lord his gender over her, reminding her that he can tell her _no_ , if he wishes. Or at least he thinks he can. He _can_ , in some ways. Legally unmarried women have more independence than their married counterparts—over their own money, at least, should they have it—but they’re also treated somewhat like children, because you are childish, of course, until you are attached to a husband. She has mountains of privilege compared to the women she’s met in Monmartre or even the opera house. She has money. Safety. Position. But she is, in some ways, held to the expectations of her sex more strictly. Or at least, she is visible in a way they are not. Philippe has never used those expectations against her, before. He is, now, and it hurts. He has risked his social status for her, and to him, that is no small thing.

She hopes he’s not regretting it.

She shakes her head, setting her jaw.

“Why would you continue seeing that man, Raoul?” Philippe asks. “Why would you not…” he stops, and she’s certain he was about to say _turn him into the police_ , though he doesn’t. “Why would you ask for his help? Demand it of him, even?”

“Because who would know how to track the movements of someone pretending to be Erik better than Erik himself?” Raoul says. “I could see that he wanted to help Christine, if not me, at first, and what better way than helping us sort this out? His friend Ismael _was_ an inspector in Persia, and smarter by far than any officer that we worked with before Don Juan. Without the two of them, we wouldn’t have found a letter in the opera that told us there were two people involved. Maybe even three. And…” she hesitates here, knowing Philippe will be angry. “Erik is the one who broke the windows, at the opera. He was trying to earn us more time. And he did it. I know it sounds insane, but it’s true.”

“And has it not occurred to you that he’s only playing games?” Philippe asks. “Has it not occurred to you that it’s been him, all along, and he’s only set out to fool you? You need to think.”

“I am thinking!” Her own voice rises again. “It’s not him.”

“Has he hurt you?”

“What?”

“Has he _hurt_ you?”

There’s no point in lying, anymore. She’s not even sure she can tell one.

“There was a moment, where I thought he might,” Raoul admits, though she spares him the details. “We got…into it, with one another. But it hasn’t happened since, all right? I don’t like him. I don’t enjoy spending time around the man who tried to kill me. But he’s been different, recently and…”

She realizes what she’s saying. The contradiction in her words. How she’s speaking of the man who will perhaps always haunt her dreams. She thinks of playing the violin earlier tonight, and him handing over that song. That song he seems to have written for her, and Christine.

She’s barely had time to think upon them, her at least somewhat changed feelings toward the old opera ghost, but she knows he isn’t the culprit. She only knows he’s a help rather than a hindrance, right now.

“Well, I know it’s not him,” she finishes. “He saw a man coming out of the opera that helped us narrow down who might be assisting the person behind all of this. He’s been helping us. None of the timelines match up for him to be pulling so elaborate a trick. The notes don’t even point toward him. The focus on me and the money and never Christine. It’s not him, Philippe. I thought it was at first, but I was wrong. Christine was right.”

Philippe shakes his head, and something about it sparks fury in Raoul. Unchecked, unrestrained fury. She aches at her brother’s betrayal. She knows she lied. She knows it hurt him, but the fact that he would hire a man to follow her…

“Why are you shaking your head?” she asks, gripping the edge of Philippe’s desk until her knuckles pop white. “You can’t listen to me for a second, can you? You know best, about everything. Well you don’t know best about this, and this is the exact reason I kept lying to you.”

“Raoul…”

Raoul jumps up from her chair, smacking her hand down on the leather and making Philippe jump.

“Don’t _Raoul_ me!” she shouts, and there are tears in her eyes, and she can’t do anything about it, but it will only make him think she can’t handle herself. “Stop lecturing me. Stop treating me like I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“You don’t know what you’re doing!” Philippe roars, standing up and resting his hands flat on his desk. “Running about Paris with a known murderer! A madman who tried to kill you and who would have run off with Christine if given the chance. Are you _doing_ this for Christine? Because she feels sorry for him?”

Raoul’s eyes narrow. “Christine would never make me do anything when it comes to Erik. Don’t you dare, Philippe. If you say one thing about Christine…”

“Stop it.” Philippe cuts her off. “I love Christine. I’m only saying that both of you seem to have forgotten what he did, and she had at least some kind memories of the bastard. But I haven’t forgotten what he did. I won’t ever.”

Heat washes over Raoul’s skin, like even her own experience, her own near-tragedy, doesn’t belong to her. Like she doesn’t recall every excruciating detail.

“I haven’t damn well forgotten.” Raoul turns away, memories of that night banging against her skull in overbright color, so vivid she forgets how to breathe. The slash of the knife. The rope the rope the _rope_. The laughter. The pain pulsing through every inch of her body. Christine, on her knees, begging a ghost for mercy. They crash into more recent memories, memories of Erik speaking to her in the managers’ office, of Erik just hours ago, bringing out that sheet music. The beginnings of an atonement in those pieces of shattered glass.

“Then why are you going to that bastard and his friend?” Philippe shouts, but a crack runs up the middle. “Who’s to say he won’t try and kill you again?”

Raoul spins around, her voice breaking and she’s sobbing, and she doesn’t want to. “Because I need help!”

She turns away again, resting her fist on the wall and swallowing back another sob.

Philippe lowers his voice. “Why can’t you ask me for help? You can _always_ ask me for help, no matter if we’re arguing.”

“You make me feel weak.”

The confession slips past her lips without forethought, and she cannot take it back.

There’s silence. Footsteps. Her brother’s hand on her shoulder. She doesn’t shrug him off, but she doesn’t turn to face him, either.

“You ask me if I want that damn tea all the time,” Raoul continues. “You treat me like a child. You don’t let me feel anything because whenever I do you always think it’s my nerves, or soldier’s heart, or whatever it was Dr. Aubert called it. I’m sorry I’m a burden to you, but sometimes it’s my nerves and sometimes I’m just upset. You don’t ever let me tell you what the difference is. You never used to treat me like this. After Don Juan, that changed. It was just little things, until recently, when all of this started up.”

“You’re not a burden to me, Raoul.”

Raoul does turn around, pulling out from under Philippe’s hand. There are tears in his eyes, now, his fair skin mottled from the earlier anger.

“What happened to me was not my fault,” Raoul says, and something _about_ saying it makes it easier to believe. She knows it wasn’t, but her world feels like it’s melting, and she _does_ wonder if that is her fault, because why can’t she fix it? “I was not seeking to bring shame and scandal to our family whatever you may think. I am not seeking to do it now, with whoever this fiend is.”

Philippe walks back over to his desk, tracing patterns on the wood. “What happened to you was not your fault.” He looks up at her, his voice shaking. “It was mine. And I have lived with it every day since.”

The words suck the breath from Raoul’s chest, and she wants to hug her brother but she’s too hurt. She’s too angry.

“No, Philippe.” She’s softer here than she’s been all evening. “It just happened. You couldn’t have stopped it.”

“I am your brother.” Philippe digs in here. “And whatever you may have said downstairs, I love you like my own child. And I let you go to that opera house without me. And now something’s happening again, and I can’t stand aside. I won’t.”

“I’m sorry I said that.” Raoul wipes her eyes, but she’s still angry, she’s still angry. “I didn’t mean it. But even if I am _your_ child I am not actually a child, anymore. Philippe, you’ve let me do as I would for most of my life. I’m grateful for it. You’ve given me the freedom you would to a brother. And you can’t take that back now, you can’t hover around me like this, try to control me, and expect me not to react. I’m rash, sometimes. But I’m not stupid.”

“I know you aren’t,” Philippe replies. “I would never think it.”

Raoul bites her lip. “You can’t prevent bad things from happening just by building a fence around me. By holding me too tight. I…I know what it’s like, to fear the worst. But I need you, Philippe. And lately it hasn’t felt like you’ve been there.”

“I was trying to be there more.” Philippe clears his throat, and it sounds like he’s trying not to cry.

Raoul hesitates. “Are you sorry for sending that man after us?”

“I…” Philippe stumbles here, and the next words hurt. “I don’t know. I did it because I’m afraid of losing you, and that hasn’t changed. I am sorry for making you feel weak. You aren’t.”

“I didn’t want to lie to you,” Raoul admits. “But Philippe you…you didn’t leave me with much of a choice. I wanted to tell you, but you weren’t even listening to me, so how could I? I wanted to find the best way to end this. Erik and Ismael were that. So I did it. Don’t you know how hard it’s been to be around him? I’m doing it to protect my new life. If we can get this figured out before rehearsal starts up again no one need know.”

How she’s going to do so now, when it’s moved past just notes and into real violence she doesn’t know. What can they do, really, with an apparently violent person once they sort out who the person is? She supposes, at least, that if they can figure it out, then they can hand the culprit over to the police, and then no one in charge will say she’s not capable. But then the whole story will be suspect, won’t it?

The earlier fears of them blaming her remain. Would they arrest her? Christine? Would they think she was simply creating more trouble? She has to keep them safe. To keep Simone and the people at the opera safe.

She doesn’t know how to hold it all.

Her distrust of the police remains. She remembers the way they looked at her in the days after the lair, like she was just some mad girl who was telling stories at best, and who was actively involved with a criminal who turned on her at worst. She felt, too, that Erik’s antics, his exposure of them at the masquerade, reached the officers who questioned her. She saw it in their eyes. That judgement.

And it deprived her, in the end, of their real assistance. Their protection. The mob went down, yes, but would they have saved Christine if something had happened to Raoul, or just considered her complicit? Plenty of people said, afterward, that Christine was a loose woman, a poor opera rat in league with ghost.

Even Raoul’s money, her name, couldn’t save her from the rumors, from the disdain of the police. The story didn’t fit, did it? The fairytale. She was not a man going down to a deep, dark underworld to save the woman he loved from the machinations of a ghost. The god of his domain. She was a woman going to save another woman and risking her life for it. She was a kind of Orpheus that night, but not the one they were looking for. Erik has many tribulations in this world, tribulations she will never know and never suffer, but in this story, he was a man and she was a woman and she was too _much_ , and maybe that was enough to make the police hesitate. To doubt her. To wonder if Erik was really the hero, all along, despite the trail of bodies in his wake.

The man is supposed to win the woman at the end of the story, after all. Not her.

She wonders if she’s insane to pursue this, but that look in Erik’s eyes as he handed her the music, the music called _A Ballad of Two Roses_ stays with her. It wasn’t quite an _I’m sorry_ , but it was…remorse. She doesn’t know how to even believe it, but she swears it was.

Neither of them speak again, and Raoul senses that they’re done, for now. She’s too tired, in any case, to try and continue on.

It is not resolved. Especially not when they are set to try and interview Jacques and Adrien tomorrow, with Ismael in tow.

She will have to leave that for the morning.

“I need to go see Christine.” Raoul runs a hand over her face. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

Philippe does speak once more, though he sounds tired more than angry and Raoul’s not sure if that’s worse. “I shall need to know, tomorrow, what pieces of this mystery you haven’t shared.”

Raoul nods, then makes her way down the hall, running into Madeline, who doesn’t press. She peeks in on Simone, who Madeline says has been sleeping through the argument, but that she was awake, while they were out. Raoul doesn’t want to disturb the little girl, but she feels terrible that all of this is happening while Simone is grieving and injured. She wishes she could stop it all. What’s happening isn’t her fault, but it doesn’t mean that she doesn’t feel like she’s failed to fix it.

She reaches her suite of rooms, and Juliette’s there, closing the door behind her.

“She just needed a quiet space,” Juliette says at what must be a look on Raoul’s face. “She’s all right.”

Raoul runs her hand through her hair, tousling it even further. “I’m sorry, Juliette. For keeping things from you. But if I told you, I knew you would have to tell Philippe. And I knew he would react like this.”

“I could have helped you tell him,” Juliette argues, impatience in her voice. “Instead you assumed what I would do. As much as I love him, as much as he and I have raised you together, I don’t simply do as Philippe wishes, which you know well. Had I found out about the investigator before this afternoon, I would have told you, Raoul, because I didn’t agree with it, and you are not a child. I usually assume we share that same level of trust, and I’m disappointed that didn’t occur to you. I admit I cannot understand why you would want to speak with that wretched man.” Her words tremble here, and Raoul remembers how steady, how calm her sister was that terrible night, and how it kept her grounded as the pain blazed through her body. “But I do wish you had trusted me with the fact that you did.”

Tears brim in Raoul’s eyes again. “I’m sorry.”

She does feel a bit like a child now, desperate for Juliette’s forgiveness, even if she didn’t see a way forward before, with telling them about Erik.

Juliette kisses her cheek, first one, and then the other. “I know. Go rest. We’ll talk more tomorrow.”

Raoul agrees, taking the weight of her sister’s disappointment with her. She finds Christine at her vanity, already down to her chemise and drawers, busy taking the pins out of her hair on her own. She turns as Raoul comes inside, her face still pale. Raoul steps up behind the chair, stilling Christine’s hand and continuing the work of removing the hair pins carefully, given how they often snag on the curls.

“Are you all right?” Raoul asks. “How was Juliette?”

Tears throb behind her eyes, but she needs to hold them off at least for a few minutes. She needs to be certain of Christine’s well-being.

“Yes. She was more concerned with how I was doing than interrogating me.” Christine hesitates, a spark of anger in her eyes as her voice goes higher in that dangerous sort of way. “How was Philippe?”

“He…” Raoul struggles, taking out the last hairpin and watching Christine’s curls tumble down her back. “He’s worried and he…we got into it about things that were about rather more than just tonight. But I told him that sending that man to follow us was wrong.”

“Ridiculous,” Christine says, more scathing than she’s perhaps ever sounded. “I love that man as if he were my own brother, but I don’t think I want to look at him right now. At least Juliette didn’t know. She was sweet to me. And she’s worried about you.”

Raoul releases a breath, and she finds she doesn’t know if she can talk at length about this, tonight, so she brushes Christine’s hair out in silence for a while. The light of the gas lamps glint off the silver-backed brush, and she finds this as soothing as she always does, just existing here in the quiet with Christine. Once that’s done, she starts divesting herself of her clothes. Her jacket, her waistcoat, her shirt, and she’s too tired to call for Madeline. Christine helps her with her corset and her skirt and all that entails. Something about being in only her barest undergarments makes the burdens and the shock of the night, of all of this, fall down on her shoulders. She puts a hand over her mouth, those tears she was trying to hold back spilling out.

A strangled sob bursts past her lips.

And then, she can’t stop crying.

“My love,” Christine whispers. “My love, it’s all right.”

Raoul shakes her head, all but collapsing on her side of the bed. She curls up and Christine’s there, holding her, stroking her hair.

“What if Phillipe is never done being angry with me?” Raoul asks the question she wouldn’t allow herself to think of before. “What if… I don’t…”

A symphony of sounds resounds in her head. Breaking glass. A rope pulling taught. Around a doll’s neck. Around _her_ neck. Laughter. Erik’s laughter but also the laughter of whoever is haunting her now, like she knows it but can’t pin it down. Christine’s voice, clear and pure and breathtaking.

A violin.

Gustave’s violin.

 _Her_ violin.

Her violin, playing the opera ghost’s song.

“Shhh.” Christine holds her tighter, her cheek resting in the hollow of Raoul’s neck, her leg hooking around Raoul’s. “That won’t happen. He can’t stay angry, he loves you too much. Juliette too. And you…we have a right to be upset. Sending that investigator was not right. How he’s been behaving recently is not right.”

“He upset you.” Raoul shuts her eyes, more tears flooding out. “I didn’t stop him and I know you don’t like shouting and I…”

“I just needed a quiet space,” Christine gently interrupts. “I’m sorry to have left you with him alone. I wanted to come back down, but Juliette said I should give the the two of you a moment.”

“I think he would have insisted upon seeing me alone.” Raoul sniffs, shifting her head away from the damp spot on her pillow. “There was no getting out of that.”

Raoul’s chest aches. Her eyes throb, and then, she can’t even cry anymore. She doesn’t have it in her and she doesn’t want to _hurt_ she just wants to feel something other than the anxiety stuck at the bottom of her stomach. She turns to face Christine, sliding a hand against her cheek and kissing her. Softly at first. A question.

“I just want…” Raoul sucks in a breath. “I don’t want to think, anymore, I…”

Christine kisses her in response before pulling back to meet her gaze, and Raoul’s eyes are sticky from tears, but kissing Christine feels good. It chases away her anxiety and she’s so weary of her nerves. She’s afraid and she’s tired of being afraid, but it is a relief to admit she is.

Raoul doesn’t feel like she’s enough to hold her world together. The world she built out of defiance and hope despite the nightmare lingering at the edges of her mind. She survived that, she thrived, and this isn’t fair. Why can’t she be enough? She looks at Christine, who has that smile on her face Raoul knows so well, sad as it might be right now, and she realizes one thing. One truth that settles in the center of her chest.

She is enough for Christine.

She is enough when she doesn’t feel like enough for anyone or anything else. Not to keep the opera going. Not for her siblings, who she lied to. But maybe with that one truth, she can keep her heart together, and find her way through this.

“I love you.” Raoul’s words stick in her throat and they’re a little husky as they come out.

Christine’s thumb brushes across Raoul’s lips. “I love you.”

They kiss until they can’t breathe. They kiss like they’re starving for it. They kiss and Raoul’s fingers are entwined in Christine’s curls, Christine’s hands roaming across Raoul’s back, and Raoul just wants to stay here, in this room where her nerves and this new ghost can’t touch them. She’s come so far and she’s so _angry_ this is happening. Her heart breaks at the thought of the opera slipping through her fingers even though she faced the man who tried to kill her. But Christine is here, Christine is here and she’s warm and she’s safe and she’s so gorgeous it makes Raoul’s bones ache.

Christine’s eyes are full of desire as they break apart, desire that makes Raoul’s skin flush with heat. She slips her hand beneath Christine’s nightdress, their foreheads resting together as they both breathe hard. She doesn’t have to think about the letters or the threats or the fight with the siblings she loves so much. She can just think about this. She’s good at this. Loving Christine. _God_ she loves her. She wants her. That is real and that is right and that thought spurs her on until Christine gasps like she might see stars, and the stars might be intertwined with Raoul’s name.

Then Christine, generous, determined Christine, pushes Raoul against the pillows and rids her of her drawers, and then Raoul is soaring, soaring and forgetting, just for a moment, about everything going on outside her door.

They’re strong, despite it all. Despite everything else breaking around them. 

Christine rests her head against Raoul’s bare hip, and Raoul toys with those long, loose curls, catching a snatch of that joy she felt over the past year as they built their life together, daylight seeping in through the shards of a nightmare until the nightmare started fading away. Other things took up space—the opera, their mornings with Philippe, attending the theater with Juliette and Francois, suppers with Meg or Celine or Carlotta and Piangi, nights spent in each other’s arms.

Christine tugs Raoul’s nightdress back down with gentle hands, before sliding up and kissing the bridge of her nose.

“We are together,” Christine says, oh so softly. “And you are enough for me. Just how you are.”

Raoul curls up on her side, one arm draped over Christine’s waist. “Are you reading my mind?”

“I’m not sure I have that power.” Christine smiles, just a little. “But I am good at knowing what you’re thinking.” She pauses. “We will fix things with Philippe and Juliette. We will take care of Simone. We will figure this out.” She says those words like she needs to hear them, too. There’s a tremor of loss in her voice, a tremor of _what-if_ , but she keeps it back. They sound like the words Raoul spoke to Christine before Don Juan. The words of reassurance in the dark.

Sleep claims Raoul, after that, and she tumbles into it head-first, holding onto the piece of her world that still makes sense.


	11. The Complete Appearance of a Real Phantom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The de Chagny siblings attempt to make amends. Christine, Raoul, and their friends close in on the specter haunting them. 
> 
> Danger awaits.

The moment the door to his study opens, Philippe knows who it is.

“No knock?” he asks, gazing out the window as a heavy autumn rain starts falling, leaving droplets against the cold glass. “That’s not like you.”

“You’ll have to forgive my manners,” Juliette says, cool and clipped. “I’m not really in the mood for ceremony.”

Philippe turns around toward his sister, his friend, his confidant, the person who helped him raise Raoul.

“Don’t be angry at me, Juliette.”

The pleading of a young man. A boy. Not a forty-three-year old adult responsible for the well-being of his sisters.

Juliette sits in the chair Raoul vacated, folding her hands on the desk. “I don’t want to be.”

“How was Christine?” Philippe removes his hand from the window, his palm tingling with cold. The one trouble with this study is the lack of a fireplace, though it usually stays warm enough, tucked away as it is in a corner of the second floor.

Philippe doesn’t ask Juliette if she saw Raoul, yet, because thinking of her tears, the fact that he caused them, is too much. He needs a moment to breathe.

“Tense,” Juliette answers. “I asked her a little of how it was with that…well I suppose his name is Erik, isn’t it? And we spoke of that for a while, and then I helped her calm down and undress. was very upset. Like Raoul gets when her nerves are overwhelming. Shouting at them like that, accusing them, accosting them…” she pauses here, her voice lower than usual. “It was not the tack I would have suggested.”

Guilt weighs heavy on Philippe’s bones. “I know. I know that.”

“And I don’t just mean with Christine,” Juliette adds. “I mean with Raoul, too. Christine isn’t as fragile as you think, and Raoul might shout back at you, but she’s mostly doing it to hide how distressed she is.”

Philippe runs his fingers through his hair, mussing it remnants of pomade come off on his hands. “I _know_ , Juliette.”

Juliette leans forward, insisting he meet her eyes. “If you _know,_ then why did you act like that?”

Philippe all but throws himself into his chair, and he doesn’t miss his sister rolling her eyes at his petulance.

“Because I was angry. Because Raoul lied and she won’t listen. She’s stubborn as a horse, but lying? It’s not like her at all. She’s such a sweet girl and I…”

He trails off, and those last words make Juliette smile, just a touch. “She’s not a girl, Philippe. She’s all grown-up. I had Estelle when I was Raoul’s age. She’s been running the opera house for a year. She’s young, but she’s not a child.”

Philippe nods, though he doesn’t answer to Juliette’s point. “Are you angry? At Raoul and Christine?”

“I…” Juliette cuts herself off, taking a deep breath. “A bit, yes, but I’m more concerned about why they felt the need to lie to us. I want to fix that problem so we can get to the bottom of what’s going on—the fact that some new madman is after them.”

Philippe draws back in his chair, looking away from her. “Are you angry at me?”

“Philippe.”

“Are you?”

“The same thing I just said applies to you. I’m upset you didn’t tell me about this. I’m upset that you would hire that man in the first place. But I want to know what made you do it. That’s what I’m concerned about. We all need to be on the same side, right now. There’s too much going on.”

Philippe blinks, feeling foolish for crying, even though Juliette has probably seen him cry more than anyone else.

“I’m scared of losing her. Both of them.” He whispers the confession, his eyes darting toward an old stain on the rug beneath his desk, where a young Raoul knocked over a drink. It always made him think of her and her silly, childish giggle, so he never replaced the rug. He looks at Juliette. “I’m scared I’ll see Raoul like I did that night. Bleeding. Dying. I didn’t stop that from happening.”

Juliette takes his hand, grasping his fingers tight. “I’ve told you that wasn’t your fault and one day you need to believe me. Trying to tighten your grip to prevent that is only going to push Raoul away. She shouldn’t have lied to us. But _you_ shouldn’t have hired that investigator. A man stalking them in the dark? Philippe, you should have known better.”

Philippe runs his hands over his face. “I know,” he repeats. “Alexandre put the idea in my head, when he was here one afternoon when Raoul started acting cagey. Said there were discreet people who could help to make sure she wasn’t getting into trouble. Gave me a name of one he’d heard of.”

Juliette lets go of Philippe’s fingers, sitting back in her chair. “You told _Alexandre_ and not me?”

Philippe raises his hands. “Only because he was the one who suggested the idea. I haven’t given him daily updates.”

Juliette gets up like Raoul did, though she doesn’t smack her hand on the chair, and she doesn’t raise her voice. There’s just that _disappointment_ , the kind their mother could wield, and Juliette, at least, has taken on that trait. Juliette is very like their mother, sometimes—steady, kind, a peacemaker. Raoul looks like their mother, almost astonishingly so, when the light hits her the right way. Truth be told, Philippe always loved his mother, felt closer to his mother, than he ever did his father, incorrect as that might be for a son. He was always his father’s favorite because he was the son, the _only_ son, but he loved his mother best. She was warmer. More loving. His father wasn’t cruel, not by any means, and he cared in his own ways, but he was harder to know, and stuck in the old ways.

If Philbert de Chagny were still alive, he might very well consider Philippe a disappointment. Unmarried and without issue. Unsettled. More liberal in his politics than his forebears, if not as progressive as, say, his youngest sister.

He realizes that tonight, he made Raoul feel like a disappointment, and he hates himself for it.

“He’s our brother-in-law, Juliette,” Philippe protests. “It’s not insane that I should bring up my concerns with him when he asked.”

Juliette sighs mightily, resting her hands on the back of the chair. “Philippe, Alexandre is…well he’s old-fashioned, and you know it. He expects women to behave a particular way, which has influenced Eloise, for certain. So I don’t think that getting advice about _Raoul_ from him is the best idea.”

She’s not wrong, there. Philippe didn’t seek Alexandre out, he just happened to come by, one afternoon. Of his brothers-in-law Philippe vastly prefers Francois, who he actively seeks to spend time with even when Juliette is not present. Sometimes he even worries that Alexandre’s occasional snobbery had caused Eloise to be more distant from them, though that, at least, has improved in the past year or so.

“I’m right here like I always am,” Juliette continues, huffing. “You didn’t have to talk to Alexandre. You could have spoken to Francois, or Felix, if you insisted on not speaking to me.”

“You would have told me no.” Philippe hates the whine in his voice. “And as if Francois wouldn’t have told you immediately.”

“Yes I damn well would have told you no!” Juliette raises her voice, a rare thing. “You need to end your contract with the investigator. Tomorrow. Or I shall be very cross.”

Philippe nods, rubbing at his chin. “Yes. All right.”

Juliette hesitates, then comes around to Philippe’s side of the desk, hoisting herself up on the edge like she used to when they were younger and this room first became Philippe’s. When she and Francois moved back in with him to help with Raoul after their father died, and Estelle was just three. They were only in Paris part of the year in those days, keeping to the country for months at a time and Francois having to manage parts of his family business from afar. But their father died while they were in Paris, and Philippe remembers sitting in this room with Juliette, knowing that he needed her to help him raise their twelve-year-old sister. They were already half raising her, given Philbert’s grief and his ideas about the imagined limits of a father’s involvement in a daughter’s life.

“I was hard on her, in the hallway,” Juliette says, regret in her voice. “Raoul, I mean. She’s just…she’s always trusted me before. It was a shock to see the opposite.”

Philippe take Juliette’s hand, releasing a breath. “She said I made her feel weak. So her not speaking to you about it all is probably my fault, but talking to that absolute _fiend_ I just cannot fathom, and Raoul acted as if I was insane for being angry over the idea. Even if his friend was a police inspector I just…”

Heat floods Philippe’s veins. Rage.

He doesn’t like to think what he might do, should he ever lay eyes on the opera ghost, whatever help he may have given.

“I only can’t think what he wants,” Philippe continues. “Is it some mad attempt to win Christine’s affections from Raoul? He realized trying to kill Raoul wouldn’t do, so he’s going the opposite way?”

“I think if that were true, Raoul would have cut it off already,” Juliette replies. “Christine mentioned that he was the one who did the damage to the opera house, to buy them time to keep stalling rehearsal. And that’s…well that helps Raoul, too. As much if not more than it helps Christine.”

There’s a knock on the door before either can say anything else, and Eloise comes in, holding her hands in front of her and biting her lip.

“Alexandre received my message that I would be staying tonight,” she says. “I hope that’s all right.”

Juliette gets up from the desk, patting Philippe’s shoulder before going to their sister.

“Of course,” she says, taking Eloise’s hands. “I’m sure it will be good for all of us to be here in the morning.”

Eloise quirks one eyebrow, and she looks, Philippe notices, rather like Raoul, despite the darker shade of hair.

“If you don’t mind sparing a glass of that brandy, Philippe, I wouldn’t mind some.”

For the first time all night, and despite the gnawing anxiety at the bottom of his stomach, Philippe laughs. It’s a soft, sad laugh, but it’s a laugh nonetheless, and as he pours brandy for his sisters, it makes him miss the one sleeping on the other side of the house with a deep ache. Part of him is still angry, still frustrated, but as he takes his first sip, an image appears in his head. An image of Raoul after she first took over the opera. He remembers the way she sat in the chair across from him with one ankle resting over her knee as she took the glass from his hand, and he chose not to tease her about the faint smear of Christine’s lipstick on her cheek. He remembers the light in her eyes. The smile as she tucked a stray hair behind her ear.

He remembers the way she laughed.

He remembers the way she looked alive. 

* * *

Raoul wakes up early the next morning.

Unlike the events of last night, that, at least, is not a surprise. She slides out from under the covers, careful not to wake Christine, who is still deeply asleep. Christine’s curls are tousled, but Raoul resists the temptation to move them away from her face, smiling at how wild they are as she puts on her dressing gown, the blue silk soft beneath her fingers.

She’s going to see Simone.

She pushes the door open slowly, the creak echoing rather louder than she expected. Simone’s eyes flutter open as soon as Raoul steps inside, the skin beneath smeared purple despite all the sleep she’s gotten.

“Good morning,” Raoul says, leaving the door partway open behind her. “I just wanted to see how you were.”

“My arm hurts.” Simone’s voice comes out in a croak, her words holding all the blunt honesty of an ill child.

Raoul sits on the edge of the bed, helping Simone up against the pillows and pouring her some water. The little girl drinks it with vigor before making a face at the Laudanum Raoul offers, though she does accept.

“I heard…” Simone’s words are thick with sleep. “…shouting? Last night. Was that a dream?”

Raoul almost lies. She almost says that it was a dream, except, she can’t tell another falsehood.

“No, not a dream.” She brushes Simone’s sweaty hair back from her face, noting the way she tenses at the tenderness. “My brother Philippe and I were arguing over something. But it’s all right. Nothing for you to be worried about.”

Simone’s eyes grow cloudy, and she has that look again, that look that says she wants to tell Raoul something.

“How’s your head feeling?” Raoul asks, her fingers grazing across the bandage. “Any better?”

Simone nods. “A little. It aches and I can’t…” she struggles here. “My thoughts feel…tangled.”

“Hmm,” Raoul says. “I understand that.”

She does. She didn’t hit her head that night in the lair, but the lack of air while she was stuck in the rope made her mind strange, for a few days after, so many of her thoughts fractured and incomplete.

Simone peers at her. “You were hurt, by the opera ghost. I heard stories, around the opera house. They said he almost killed you.”

This is not something that Raoul, in her half-awake state, was prepared to discuss with a child—she’s barely discussed it with Estelle, who is old enough to listen, though perhaps without the gory details—but she’s always felt that children are more astute that people give them credit for.

“They were telling the truth.” Raoul smiles, just a little. “But Christine saved me.”

Simone furrows her eyebrows. “They said you went to save her.”

“I did, but she ended up saving me. I went down to get her after the ghost kidnapped her, and then the ghost tried to kill me, as you heard, and Christine convinced him to stop. She would say we saved each other.”

Simone blinks, almost like she might cry. “I like that story.” She pauses, reaching for Raoul’s hand, skinny fingers curling around Raoul’s own. “Thank you. For everything you’ve done for me.”

Raoul’s about to answer when there’s a rap on the door.

“I thought I heard someone coming down the hall,” Eloise says, already dressed. “Philippe and Juliette are downstairs, Raoul, if you would come join us. I’ll tell Helene to bring some breakfast up for Simone.”

Raoul gets up, feeling a pull back toward Simone.

She could have sworn she was about to learn something, but then, perhaps not. Perhaps she was only imagining things.

She steps out into the hallway with Eloise, who waits for her to speak.

She never thought she would feel less awkward around Eloise than Juliette or Philippe, but the past few weeks have brought stranger and stranger things into her life.

“Thank you,” Raoul says, running a hand through her loose hair. “For helping with Philippe, last night.”

“Oh.” Eloise twists her fingers, her light brown hair more tousled than usual. “You’re welcome. Are you…are you all right?”

“No.”

The word slips out of Raoul’s mouth, and she almost regrets it, except it’s true, and there’s no point in lying anymore. Maybe it’s progress. That _no_. She’s so used to saying she’s fine when she isn’t, especially to her siblings.

Eloise hesitates, then takes Raoul’s hand in hers, holding tight.

“I know you are used to quarreling with me and not with them.” She speaks earnestly, more earnestly than even the other day. “I know it must feel strange, but they’re just worried about you. This is not some unalterable thing. We’ll sort it all out.”

Raoul nods, deciding to go dress before heading down for breakfast. She finds Christine awake, and Madeline helps them as quick as she may. Wanting to save time, Raoul asks Madeline to plait her hair, which she does less frequently now—aside from when she’s sleeping—wanting to be taken seriously at the opera. She toys with the end, the familiarity of it comforting.

There’s soft murmuring at the breakfast table when she and Christine arrive downstairs. They take the two empty places across from Juliette and Eloise, Philippe sitting at the head nearest the silver coffee pot.

No one says anything for rather a long moment, and it is, oddly, Philippe who breaks the silence. Usually Raoul finds herself playing that role.

“Coffee, Raoul?” he asks, picking up the pot.

Raoul pushes her cup over in agreement, the smell itself enough to wake her. Philippe pours Christine some as well, and Raoul takes a long, lingering sip, finding it gives her the courage to speak.

“I am meant to interview two of our stagehands today, with Ismael and Andre,” she says, looking at Philippe. “At Andre’s flat.”

Philippe taps one finger on the edge of his china cup. “I think it would be best if you let them do it and have them send a message to you.”

Frustration sends a jolt up Raoul’s spine. “Are you trapping me here?”

“ _No_.” A hint of anger pours into Philippe’s voice, though it lessens when Juliette shoots him a look. “I know that I…”

“Threatened to supply me with an escort as if I were a child?” Raoul shoots back.

“Raoul.”

Juliette’s chiding her now, and Raoul backs down.

“I am sorry for that.” Philippe softens here, tentatively putting one hand over Raoul’s. “I am simply suggesting that you ask them to do this so that we may focus on catching up this morning, and also because I think at least one of the two of you…” he gestures at Raoul and Christine. “Be here, as Simone was asking after you yesterday as she grew more lucid.”

With that, Raoul cannot argue.

“I was meant to meet Carlotta and Piangi briefly while Raoul was interviewing the stagehands, to let them know everything going on.” Christine takes a long sip of her coffee, eyeing Philippe as her voice goes a touch higher, her grip tight on the cup. “I think I ought to do that, still.”

Philippe opens his mouth like he might argue, but he diverts course. “I too, will be tending to some business this afternoon. But I would prefer us all home before nightfall, which I think is a reasonable request.”

This, Raoul notices, means that she will likely be in the house alone if her sisters return to their homes, and she wonders if Philippe is doing this on purpose to keep her here, but she won’t argue the point. At least not for today. She can look after Simone, and perhaps with the house empty, the little girl might be more willing to share anything she remembers, _if_ she remembers it clearly. Dr. Aubert said she might not.

“Perfectly.” Christine’s voice is again a little high, a little sharp, and Raoul thinks she has grown angrier with Philippe during the night where she herself is less so.

“What is your business?” Raoul asks, taking the baguette Juliette pushes her way and spreading jam on it, the taste of strawberries sweet on her tongue.

“He is going to terminate his contract with the investigator.” Juliette meets Raoul’s eye before looking at Philippe. “I assume that was still your intent?”

“Yes.” Philippe nearly mutters, sounding a touch like a reprimanded boy, and Raoul feels guilty, all over again for not simply telling Juliette the truth, and letting her help with talking to Philippe. “That is where I’m going.”

An awkward pall falls over the table, and Eloise and Juliette find reasons to leave, saying they’ll need to depart, in a few hours, to return home. Juliette goes out of her way to walk past Raoul’s chair, pressing a kiss to her hair before she goes, one hand squeezing her shoulder. There’s a return to normalcy in the silent gesture, and Juliette gives her a real smile as she pecks Christine’s cheek before going.

Things with Philippe, she suspects, will not be so simple.

Philippe takes a long sip of his remaining coffee, though Raoul senses that it’s because he’s trying to sort out what to say. The residual anger from last night pushes hot against her chest, and part of her wants to speak first, to avoid having her brother think that she’s merely waiting for his instruction, but there’s something glistening in his eyes, something sad, so she stays quiet, taking Christine’s hand in hers.

“You asked me last night, Raoul, if I was sorry for hiring that investigator.” He looks at them both, a small, wistful half-smile sliding across his lips. “I am sorry. It was a betrayal of your trust, and egregiously so, but…” he’s almost pleading now, and that makes Raoul’s heart ache. “…I am asking you now, please, to tell me the truth. I want to help you. I want you to feel like you may _always_ tell me the truth, and I…I’m sorry for making you feel otherwise.”

So, they tell him. About Erik. About Ismael. About everything they’ve learned. To his credit, he listens, and does not interrupt.

“I cannot say I trust the ghost,” Philippe says when they’re done, refusing, Raoul notices, to use Erik’s name. “I still think you ought to second-guess anything he says or does. It does not, however, seem like he is the actual perpetrator.”

“After the one instance where I feared he might hurt Raoul,” Christine replies, holding tighter to Raoul’s hand. “I told him that if he had any other ideas in his head about doing so, that the bargain we’d struck was over. That he would never see me again. That I would have him arrested, even if I didn’t wish that on him.” She meets Philippe’s eye, and Philippe seems intrigued, perhaps even surprised by the steel in Christine’s words. Raoul is not, of course. Christine is stronger than most people realize. “I would never let him hurt Raoul again. Not for anything.”

“I know.” Philippe speaks softly as Christine gets up from her chair, ostensibly so they might have a moment alone. She doesn’t share the details of that encounter with Erik, which are private, vulnerable, frightening things, things that Raoul thinks she alone might know, in their entirety.

Christine presses Raoul’s shoulder and gives Philippe a tight smile before saying she’s going to see to Simone.

Then, Raoul’s alone with her brother.

“She’s angry at me,” Philippe says, a statement rather than a question.

“She won’t be forever.” Raoul drums her fingers on the table, a nervous energy shooting through her. “But you sent a man to stalk us, Philippe, that’s…well that’s something out of Christine’s particular nightmare.”

“I love her like my own sister.” Philippe sounds boyish now, and it’s odd, coming from him, “She knows that?”

Raoul can’t help but smile at her brother. “Of course she does. I wanted to _hit_ you last night and I still knew you loved me, even if I…”

She trails off there, the overpowering emotions from last night returning, the fear that her siblings would remain furious with her, that they would not listen, that she was nothing but a burden and a disappointment. The morning light has brought some sense back into them all, even if the wounds are still bleeding, somewhat.

Philippe leans forward, catching her fingers in his. “Even if what, Raoul?”

Raoul looks up at her brother, and he looks more himself, today. Less red in the face. Kinder in the eyes. Hearing her.

“That you would never trust me. That you would be angry at me forever, that I was just…troublesome, to you. Too much. A…a disappointment.”

Philippe cradles her face with his free hand, and Raoul lets him because she loves him too much to say no, even if part of her is still angry. Still hurt.

“ _Ma petite_ ,” he says, blinking back tears. “You could never be a disappointment to me.” 

* * *

Christine and Raoul read Shakespeare to Simone for most of the morning until she falls asleep again.

She still can’t—or won’t—tell them anything about who attacked her that night.

“She seems to be feeling better,” Raoul says as they leave her to sleep. “A bit more lucid. Perhaps she’ll wake up this afternoon while everyone’s out and want to speak more.”

“Dr. Aubert said it might take time,” Christine warns, searching around for her bag as they enter their suite. “Though she seems nervous. I do agree.”

Truth be told, she sees some of herself in Simone. The way she was at the opera when Erik consumed her life. Shy where being so wasn’t natural to her personality. Anxious.

Hiding secrets.

Erik’s wondered since the beginning if Simone had some part to play in this, and now Christine wonders if he was right. Not in the cynical way he meant, but perhaps being taken advantage of.

She certainly wouldn’t be first young girl manipulated by a man.

“You’re wondering if Simone was being coerced by whoever is doing this, aren’t you?” Raoul asks, going back to their half-mumbled conversation before they fell asleep last night.

“Hmm.” Christine finds her bag, smiling at how well Raoul knows her. “We can’t press her yet, but part of me wonders if she was being asked to pass messages back and forth. I just don’t know why.”

Raoul nods, looking grim. “Then whoever it is hurt her.” She pauses, coming up from behind and wrapping her arms around Christine’s waist, her chin hooked over Christine’s shoulder. “Will you be all right going out to see Carlotta and Piangi? I promised Philippe I would stay here with Simone, in case she wakes up, and I should probably keep to that, for today.”

Christine leans back into Raoul’s embrace and closes her eyes, loving loving _loving_ her with all her might.

“I’ll be fine. Meg is meeting us at the café, and we’ll only be a while.”

Truthfully, frustrated as she is with Philippe, she’s glad Raoul is staying home for today.

Because whoever this is, they’re after Raoul. That much is clear to her now.

She turns around in Raoul’s embrace, leaving a long, lingering kiss on her lips. She pulls back, one hand on Raoul’s hip and the other on her cheek, her thumb brushing gently back and forth. Raoul’s eyes are beautiful as ever, the same deep blue as the sea in Brittany.

Raoul chuckles, though Christine hears the exhaustion in it. “What was that for, Mademoiselle Daae?”

Christine leans closer, remembering how Raoul touched her last night like she was the most sacred thing in the world, the passion leaving sparks across her skin as Raoul’s fingers trailed down.

“Do I need a reason to kiss my wife?”

Raoul makes a pleased little noise in the back of her throat and holds Christine to her, the two of them caught up in a tight embrace.

Christine doesn’t want to let go.

Raoul gives her one more kiss, both of them sharing a soft _I love you_ , and then Christine goes, running into Eloise as she’s headed out the door, Juliette and Philippe having left a half hour or so previously.

“Everything all right?” Elise asks in a low voice as they put on their cloaks.

Christine’s relationship with Eloise is strange because Raoul’s is, rotten as it was at the roots. That rot has largely healed since, and Eloise has exerted quite an effort to make good, and was, according to Raoul, very kind the other day when Simone first arrived. Still, Christine finds navigating a relationship with Eloise far more complicated than anything with Juliette, who felt like a sister from the start.

“On the mend, I hope,” Christine answers. “Raoul and Philippe aren’t terribly good at remaining angry with each other.”

Truthfully, in spite of the shouts between them that carried down the hallway last night, Christine wonders if she’s not angrier at Philippe than Raoul currently is, all of Raoul’s anger having had the opportunity to spill out in one fell swoop. Raoul was so upset last night, and Christine simply couldn’t stand it. She’ll forgive Philippe, of course, but she’s not quite convinced he understands why his actions were so incorrect, even if he’s making amends now.

“No, they aren’t,” Eloise agrees, stepping out over the threshold with Christine. “Whenever they’ve been angry they’ve shouted it out and been done not too long after, though last night was a bit different, I think. Juliette will be back in the morning, and I will too. Alexandre rather insisted I be home tonight with him and the children when he sent a message over this morning, but send someone should anything happen, and I’ll come right away. I admit, I’m a bit frustrated with Alexandre at the moment—apparently he gave the name of the investigator to Philippe, and why he would have that kind of information in his possession I don’t know.”

Unease settles into Christine’s bones, though she couldn’t say why, other than she’s always liked Alexandre the least of Raoul’s family. She almost wants to go tell Raoul this information, but then, it’s not terribly important, is it? Or Philippe would have said something this morning. “Why do you suppose he would do that? I never…” she realizes what she’s saying. “Well he and Philippe haven’t seemed terribly close.”

Eloise shakes her head, not offended. “They think differently on some things. I imagine he thought he could help with Philippe’s worry over Raoul, though both of them treating her like a child that isn’t to be trusted surely didn’t help matters. Men sometimes go too far in their ventures to protect us, I think. I intend to speak to him about it, never you fear.”

Christine nods absentmindedly, clasping Eloise’s hand in thanks before waving to Marcel, who is waiting to take her.

Meg, Carlotta, and Piangi are already there when Christine arrives at the café not far from the opera, a place they often frequent.

Carlotta has rather a lot to say.

“That poor little girl!” she exclaims when Christine finishes telling them the latest about Simone. “Even the ghost didn’t hurt a child, not that I can say much else about his character.”

“I can’t believe the ghost was the one who broke the windows and gave us the extra time to postpone rehearsal,” Piangi adds, taking a sip of his wine. “Astonishing. Truly astonishing.”

“Truly!” Carlotta echoes, her voice carrying in a way that makes Christine smile. “It’s what he owes us, at the least. You may tell him I said so, Christine. Though how you can bear him, I don’t know.”

“I will.” Christine presses Carlotta’s hand. “I was hoping that perhaps you could let some of the company know we’re working on things, and that rehearsal should start again in a week and a half or so, when the windows are fixed—though I would ask you to keep Erik’s involvement between us. We are still hoping to sort this out in the days we have left to us before we’re expected to reopen the opera house.”

“I understand why you have not involved the police,” Carlotta replies. “How useless they were to us before! And it would surely mean Raoul and Andre being removed by the powers that be.”

“And blaming Raoul or you for it all.” Meg bites her lip. “Is that what you’re worried about, Christine?”

“Raoul is.” Christine’s hand tightens around her own wine glass, half-drunk because she couldn’t make herself eat, and letting it go to her brain won’t do, right now. “And given the way that officer looked at her when we came to inspect the opera, I know why. But if we can’t sort this out…” she stops, not letting herself go down that road. “I’d best be off, but thank you, both of you, for coming to meet me. I’ll send a message when I know more.”

Piangi kisses both of Christine’s cheeks, and Carlotta sweeps her up in her arms, the older woman warmer than Christine ever knew, in those early days of Erik’s reign of terror.

Marcel’s waiting for them on the corner, and Christine hesitates before she gets inside.

“Miss Christine?” he asks. “Is something the matter?”

“Christine?” Meg echoes.

“I…” she turns to Meg, an idea that’s been lingering ever since she left the house solidifying into a choice. “I think we ought to go to Andre’s flat, to see how the interviews went. So I can tell Raoul myself.”

Meg agrees, and Christine gives Marcel Andre’s address nearby, promising to be only a few minutes once they arrive. Footsteps come rapidly to the door when she knocks, and someone wrenches it open.

“Oh, Christine,” Andre says. “Meg. Do come in. We weren’t expecting you. We were just about to write the message for Raoul.”

“I wasn’t expecting to come.” Christine steps inside, finding Ismael in the cozy sitting room pacing back and forth in front of the fire. “What’s…is something the matter?”

“Well…” Andre gestures in the air. “We’ve had a bit of…an event.”

Ismael stops his pacing as soon as he sees Christine, alarm flaring in his eyes.

Christine’s _never_ seem him look alarmed, which is saying something, given the events of the past few weeks. Out of the corner of her eye, Christine sees a vase of flowers on the floor, the porcelain shattered, water and petals spilled everywhere.

“I’m glad you’re here.” Ismael steps forward, clasping both of her hands in his. “I think…let me start from the beginning. We interviewed Adrien, and nothing seemed amiss. Then Jacques arrived, and he was hostile, almost from the start. He looked as if he hadn’t slept. I mentioned that I knew he found his position at the opera because of your sister-in-law and her husband, and he jolted up from the chair like I’d struck him, or threatened him, and then he ran out without another word.”

“Hence the knocked over vase,” Andre supplies. “Startled the daylights out of me.”

Christine stares at the flowers on the floor.

Roses. Yellow and red mixed together, but she focuses on the red ones. She thinks of the dead petals that came falling out of the first few notes. It was a detail that yes, many could know, but that someone who frequented the de Chagny house would know for certain. They would know how they always keep a vase of red roses on the dining room table, much to Philippe’s teasing chagrin.

She thinks of those rose petals, and she thinks of the notes, and the voice stitched into the words. The condescension she felt she knew. The familiarity. The use of Raoul’s first name, in the more recent missives.

And then, a hundred things come together at once.

Things she sees in Ismael’s eyes.

Meg’s saying her name, but Christine can’t make herself answer.

She recalls thinking it strange that there was no mention of the angel of music in the new notes. Not at first.

Not until after the night she spoke those words to Raoul, and then, not a moment later, Philippe, Francois, and _Alexandre_ knocked on their door.

And then, just a few days ago, Raoul said Simone seemed about to tell her something, until Juliette, Francois, and _Alexandre_ arrived for supper. They thought it simply Simone’s nerves. That she didn’t want to speak in front of people she didn’t know.

_Alexandre_ , gone at dinner.

Simone hurt, bleeding, hours later.

_Alexandre_ giving Philippe the name of the investigator.

Alexandre. Alexandre. It’s _Alexandre_.

Simone wouldn’t tell them who hurt her. Why?

Eloise was in the house. She’s been in the house since the incident, at least every time Simone is awake.

Does Eloise know? Has Eloise helped? She doesn’t want to think so, but she can’t wish the suspicion away.

Eloise’s words ring in her ears.

_Alexandre insisted I be home with him and the children tonight._

Oh…oh no. Oh _no_.

But…Alexandre doesn’t need money. That’s been the point of these notes. The money. Over and over again.

But Raoul mentioned…she mentioned the other day that Eloise said Alexandre was into some kind of new business deal, and Alexandre himself said it was why he had to excuse himself from dinner and…

“Christine.” Ismael presses her hands, drawing her back to the present. “Do you know if your brother-in-law the marquis has any debts?”

Christine stares at him, ripping her hands away without even thinking.

“Christine?” Ismael asks, and his voice sounds very far away. An echo reverberating inside her head. Distorted. Dissonant. “Are you all right?”

Her stomach twists into knots that threaten to rip her apart from the inside out.

“Christine?” Meg echoes, one hand going to Christine’s back.

Aside from the servants and Simone, Raoul is home alone.

Raoul is home alone and what if…

Oh god. Oh _god_.

She looks Ismael in the eye, and her hands are shaking shaking shaking. “I have to go.” 

* * *

Raoul’s jumps at the loud, pounding knock on the door, the book she’s reading sliding out of her hands and onto the floor. The George Saund volume she hasn’t had time to finish, recently.

Simone is still asleep upstairs. Madeline and Helene the housekeeper are out on errands. Lucien is tending to some paperwork of Philippe’s upstairs, and Victor is at the market, picking up a missing ingredient for supper. She puts down the cup of herbal tea she was drinking—of her own accord—because while it doesn’t help her nerves much, it does help a little, sometimes.

Her heart has been racing since Christine left.

She gets up to answer the knock, releasing the tattered, twisted end of her plait that she’s been toying with.

“Alexandre,” she says upon opening the door and finding her less-liked brother-in-law on the other side. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

“I didn’t expect anyone to be home.” Alexandre shifts, removing his hat.

Raoul tilts her head. “Then why are you here?”

“I brought this.” Alexandre brings out a box from beneath his coat. “Some chocolates, for Simone. I thought the poor girl could use something to cheer her.”

Raoul pauses, still standing on the threshold.

That’s not terribly _like_ Alexandre, but then, perhaps she’s not being fair. Perhaps Eloise’s newfound good nature is rubbing off on him.

Alexandre laughs, stretching to look beyond her. “Not hiding something, are you?”

“No.” Raoul shakes her head, trying a smile. “Apologies, I’m a bit tired this afternoon.”

Alexandre lays the box down on side table as they come into the sitting room, shrugging off his coat and pulling off his gloves. “I caught Eloise upon her return home this afternoon, and she said you and Philippe had a bit of a tiff. I’m sorry to hear it. I’m sure you’ll be friends again soon enough, knowing the two of you.”

There’s something off in his words. But no. No. She’s being silly. It’s her nerves and the fact that he’s rather the last person she wants to spend time with, at the moment.

“Yes,” she replies, taking a seat again near the fire, the sharp cold making her lungs ache just enough to be bothersome. “We’re already on our way there, I think.”

She’s not eager to share anything more with Alexandre, who sits down across from her, watching her sip her tea.

“How’s the girl doing?” he asks.

“Better,” Raoul answers, draining the last of her tea. “But it will be a bit before her arm especially, heals.”

Alexandre nods. “She hasn’t said who attacked her?”

“No.” Raoul gets up, thinking she might need some more tea. “I hope her memory will clear soon. Dr. Aubert hopes it might.”

Her hand is shaking. Her spine throbs, somehow, stiff and strange.

Her heart keeps racing.

“Don’t get up.” Alexandre gestures at her to sit back down. “I need some water myself, I’ll refill the tea, if there’s some left in the pot.”

Raoul nods. “In the kitchen.”

Alexandre’s gone only a moment, returning with a glass of water for him and a refilled cup of tea for her. She blows on it before taking a sip, and Alexandre sits back down.

“I do hope all of this business at the opera will clear up soon,” he says. “I know you and Christine are eager to get back to rehearsals for Faust. Garnier is still set to come to opening night, if you’re able to open in a month or so, is he not?”

“He hasn’t written to say he’s changed his mind.” Raoul takes another sip of tea, thinking that the further she gets to the bottom of the cup, the more bitter it tastes. Perhaps it steeped too long—the second half of the pot never tastes as fresh as the first. “I certainly hope he doesn’t.”

They talk of other things for fifteen minutes or so. Claire and Jean-Luc. The house outside Paris Alexandre is looking at buying. Eloise.

“Eloise said you were making an investment?” Raoul asks, noticing Alexandre tense, immediately. “With Compagnie Générale Transatlantique?”

Alexandre drinks his water before answering, emptying the glass. “I am. It never hurts to have more money, these days.”

Raoul puts down her finished tea, bothered by the stray bitterness in the back of her mouth and watching watching _watching_ Alexandre.

Why did he tense like that when she mentioned the business deal?

And…

Simone clammed up as soon as he walked in the other night, didn’t she?

But no. No that can’t be it, Alexandre married Eloise partly for money, but only to gain more of it, as he just said. He’s never been without excess. She studies him now, taking in the perfectly tailored, fashionable clothes. His perfectly cut dark brown hair.

No.

No that can’t be it.

Her heart pounds against her chest like it wants to escape her body entirely.

Alexandre takes out his pocket watch, the firelight glinting off the back and there’s…

There’s a streak of blood on it. Raoul’s certain there is.

Oh. Oh it’s _him_ , isn’t it? It has been this whole time. Did he…did he plant Jacques in the opera house for this purpose? Did he coerce Simone, somehow?

But he doesn’t need money, he doesn’t…

Unless…

Unless…

Unless he needs this money from her to make this new investment. To make an investment that might earn him dividends in return. Has he put himself in debt? It seems impossible, but it’s happened before, to people as wealthy as he is. She doesn’t know. She doesn’t _know_ , but she also doesn’t have time to contemplate the issue. Alexandre catches her looking at his watch, shoving it back in his pocket without elegance.

They wait.

They watch each other.

Then, footsteps. Footsteps padding down the stairs.

Lucien?

No.

Simone.

It’s Simone, and Alexandre came here to hurt her, didn’t he?

Kill her?

Raoul doesn’t know. She’s involved in this somehow, and she thinks that Christine’s earlier words about coercion were right.

Christine. There was something in the air earlier, wasn’t there? In the way Christine kissed her with that strange desperation, the way they embraced and didn’t want to let go. Like they knew, somehow. Like they knew something was about to go wrong.

She’s glad Christine isn’t here right now, in danger.

But she misses her. God, she misses her.

Simone’s eyes widen when she sees them, and there’s no way for Raoul to tell her to go without making a scene.

So she makes one.

At least, enough of one.

“Go, Simone,” she says, not raising her voice, because she fears what might happen to Lucien if he hears and comes downstairs. “Run.”

Simone stays with her feet stuck to the floor, staring at them like she simply can’t move. Like she doesn’t want to. She stares at Raoul in particular, tears welling up in her eyes.

Alexandre gets up.

Raoul gets up too, but her knees feel weak. Her legs are liquid.

She thinks of the bitterness in her tea. The familiarity of it.

“Go!” Raoul risks raising her voice just a touch, and this jolts Simone from her frozen state.

The little girl makes for the front door, broken arm, bandaged head and all. Alexandre lunges, but Raoul kicks her leg out in half-a-savate-move, half-just-a-desperate prayer. It makes Alexandre stumble.

And it makes her nearly fall.

There’s the sound of the front door wrenching open as Raoul catches herself on the arm of the settee, the world spinning around her.

Then someone’s behind her. Someone’s behind her pulling her up and against them, one arm going tight around her waist and the other clapped over her mouth.

“I was really hoping you would just give me the money, Raoul,” Alexandre whispers in her ear, his breath hot on her neck. “Then perhaps I wouldn’t have had to take things so far. Stubborn girl. I came for the brat, but you’re better. You’re what I wanted, most of all. I just didn’t think I would be lucky enough to find you alone. Phillipe thought you would be safe here—how upset he’ll be, when he realizes his error.” He adjusts his hand, the tips of his fingers grasping the hollow of her cheek, his palm pressed against her lips “The girl passed messages for me, you know. In exchange for money for her dying mother’s medicine.”

There’s more to it, Raoul knows there’s more to it, but she doesn’t know what the _more_ is. She tries pulling away, but her legs are giving out, and he only tugs her tighter to him.

“Uh-uh. No interrupting.”

_Uh-uh, no interrupting the opera._

Erik’s voice from that night of Don Juan resounds in her head, and she never thought she might find herself wishing for her old foe, but she does, right now.

At least she knew what he was after. At least she knew who her enemy was.

“Jacques told me you were meeting with the opera ghost.” Alexandre laughs, and the hairs rise on the back of Raoul’s neck. “He followed you to that foreigner’s flat. It was what gave me the idea to suggest the investigator to Philippe. To break the trust between you. To make him think it was that masked freak for as long as possible, because why wouldn’t it be?”

Raoul tenses, and her vision goes black at the edges, and she can’t get out of this, can she? She wishes she had a knife. Anything.

Her legs quake. Why did she drink the tea? Why did she drink it when it tasted strange? But tea _always_ tastes strange to her, familiar with coffee as she is.

Alexandre laughs again. “Yes, that was my idea. And Philippe fell for it without me even having to try.”

Raoul tries to ask why, but it only comes out muffled for how tight Alexandre’s hand is clamped over her mouth.

“Throwing in your lot with your whore’s lover was an interesting tactic, I admit. It did get you close to sorting out who was behind all this. Too close.” Alexandre clucks his tongue. “This could have been easy, Raoul. You had to make it difficult. But then, you always do, don’t you? To be honest…” he laughs _again,_ like he might have practiced this speech in the mirror, and it makes Raoul’s skin burn. “I can’t believe the chorus girl left you here alone. Are you sure she didn’t abandon you for the opera ghost? I should think even she would long for a proper lover, eventually, no matter how strange. Your little play at marriage was shameful. Embarrassing. I’ve lost friends because of you. And other things, too. I wouldn’t be surprised if Christine found herself ashamed of you.”

Nothing short of lava rushes through Raoul’s veins, clogging them up with sludgy heat. She stomps down on Alexandre’s foot, but with half her normal power.

He sucks in a breath through his teeth, but he doesn’t let go. “Spirited as usual, I see. You are mannish, aren’t you? Philippe lets you get away with too much. That was Laudanum in your tea, by the way. Quite a concentrated dose. There’s no point in fighting me.”

Then, a voice calling down the stairs.

“Raoul?” Lucien asks. “Are you quite all right down there?”

Alexandre pushes down hard on Raoul’s mouth, tilting her head back to the point of pain. “Say you’re fine, or I’ll push that old valet down the stairs.”

He removes his hand from her mouth, and Raoul clears her throat. “I’m all right, Lucien. I just got too involved in my reading, if you heard shouting.”

“I’ll only be a few minutes,” Lucien answers back. “Let me know if you require anything.”

“I will!”

Alexandre’s hand goes back over her mouth. “Now walk. My carriage is outside.”

Raoul can’t do anything but obey, except as soon as she takes her first step, she does fall, landing on her hands and knees. Alexandre grabs her by the plait near the nape of her neck, dragging her up and putting his arm around her waist again, walking her as quietly as possible over the threshold and out toward his carriage.

In the autumnal twilight, their street stands empty.

Alexandre nods at his driver and picks Raoul up bodily from the ground, all but throwing her in the carriage and slamming the door behind him. He seizes her, pulling a length of rope from his pocket and tying it tight around her wrists. To think that she planned for this. She took lessons. She swore no man would ever hurt her again. Not like Erik did.

And then the tea was her downfall. The moment she decided to drink it without feeling pressured, to hope it might calm her…

Alexandre ties her feet, too, and unconsciousness pulls at her and she tries to kick her leg out again but it doesn’t do any good.

She feels too heavy. Clumsy.

“You didn’t plan for me, did you?” Alexandre seizes her by the collar, and for a moment, she swears she can’t breathe. “You’re nothing but a stupid girl, Raoul. A stupid girl who’s the shame of her family.” His lips curl into a grin. “Eloise used to say that all the time, you know.”

He shoves her against the seat. Raoul tries to speak, but words fail her, and her entire world goes black.


	12. The Ghost Was Not A Myth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simone reveals the truth. Christine comes to a decision. Erik faces a choice. The de Chagny siblings finally meet the infamous opera ghost. 
> 
> And somewhere outside Paris, Raoul tangles with her brother-in-law.

Something jumps out of the bushes as soon as Christine approaches the house.

Or rather, someone.

Meg yelps. Andre stumbles in surprise.

Christine stays calm. She’s been oddly, eerily calm since she left Andre’s, asking Ismaël to go to Erik, and wait for word.

For whatever she finds here.

Maybe it will be fine.

Maybe…

“Mademoiselle Christine!” Simone whispers as she looks around her with wide, frightened eyes, though really it’s more of a shout as she pulls on Christine’s hand. “Mademoiselle Christine, he _took_ her.”

_Her._

She must mean Raoul. 

Christine’s chest contracts.

She can’t breathe, for a moment. A long one.

She wants to ask _who_. She wants to ask _when_. But they can’t have this conversation in the street.

At this point, she doesn’t know who might be listening.

She ushers Simone inside, Andre and Meg following behind. She wants to search the room. She wants to shout. She wants to cry she wants to _scream_ , but there’s a terrified girl in front of her, a terrified, injured, _orphaned_ girl, so she leads Simone to a chair in the sitting room as soon as the door’s closed, squatting down in front of her. Soothing her.

It’s what Raoul would do.

She asks the question, but she thinks she already knows the answer. Still, she needs confirmation.

“Who took Raoul, Simone?”

Simone releases a shaky, shuddering breath. “The marquis. He…I think he came to…” tears well in her eyes. “…to kill me. But he took her instead. He put something in her tea so she couldn’t fight him. She told me to run, and he tried to come after me, but she kicked him and fell, and she was shaking. I knew he must have done something because she told me about her savate lessons, and I know she must have been good at them.”

“Oh my god,” Meg says, clapping one hand over her mouth. “I…it really is Eloise’s husband then.”

“There’s an empty teacup here.” Andre dips his finger into the bottom where the dregs must be, pressing it to his tongue. “Hmm. Bitter. Laudanum, I expect. Rather a lot of it, though not a deadly dose, I should think.” He glances at the floor. “And there’s a book here. Nothing else. Even the fire’s still going, though it’s low.”

Lucien comes down the stairs then, and Christine squeezes Simone’s shoulders, determined to go back to her in a moment.

“Lucien,” Christine says, breathless. Raoul is _gone_. Alexandre _took_ her. He took her and she has to figure this out. “Are you the only one home?”

Lucien nods. “I was tending to some of the comte’s paperwork upstairs. I…” he must see the concern on her face. “Where is Raoul?”

Christine takes a deep breath. “She’s been kidnapped. By Alexandre.”

Lucien’s eyes widen. “I….oh, I thought I heard her shout, but she said she was only shouting at her book which isn’t out of the ordinary, and I didn’t hear the door open or close or…” he pauses. “The marquis? Are you certain?” 

“Yes.” Christine grasps the old valet’s hand, and she’s not surprised he didn’t hear the door, as Philippe’s study is across the house, and he’s hard of hearing in his right ear. Besides, why would he be suspicious? This place, at least, was supposed to be safe. “Lucien, how long ago did you hear her?”

“Not a quarter of an hour.”

“When is Philippe meant to be home?”

“Any moment, madame.”

 _Madame._ Lucien often calls her that when she isn’t insisting her call her by her first name, treating her like a legally married woman, even if she never can be. She loves him for it. She loves this family, whatever arguments happened last night. She’s a part of it, and she won’t let Alexandre destroy it.

She knew she never liked the man, she just didn’t suspect him of _this_.

She goes back to Simone, who is shaking now, Meg’s arm around her shoulders. She squats back down, moving her skirts out from under her feet.

“Simone, sweetheart, I’m going to need you to tell me what you know. Did you not want to say anything before because Eloise was here?”

“Yes.” Simone bites her lip, tears streaming down her cheeks. “I didn’t know if she was part of it. Is she?”

Christine takes Simone’s hands in her own, wishing she had a different answer. “I don’t know.”

“I…” Simone tenses, like she thinks she doesn’t deserve Christine’s kindness. “I didn’t even know until the other night that the marquis was Mademoiselle de Chagny’s family. I didn’t know, I didn’t…”

She’s not calling Raoul by her first name, Christine notices. Like she thinks she’s no longer allowed.

“I took messages that Jacques left in that hallway behind the mirror,” Simone continues, sitting up straighter. “And brought them to the marquis’ door. I only met him properly two or three times. Otherwise I just left them. He had me drop off one of those notes of his when I was bringing Monsieur Andre’s message that day and I hated to do it. Jacques was the one who made strange things happen in the opera house, on the marquis' orders. I…he was giving me money for my mother’s medicine, and he said…he said he would get me in trouble with the police if I didn’t do it, too. That he’d get us in trouble with our landlord. I should have asked you, but I didn’t know how…I didn’t…”

Simone bursts into tears, and Christine pulls the girl to her, mindful of her broken arm.

Erik was right.

And he wasn’t, all at once.

 _She_ was right, about the coercion.

“I was going to tell her,” Simone says as she pulls back, wiping her eyes. “That night when you let me stay with you. But then the marquis came in the door and…and…” she shuts her eyes tight. “Then he came in and all I could think to do was run, I thought I could hide in the opera and not help him anymore, I didn’t _want_ to help him, and then he found me there. I was sure he was going to kill me.”

Christine’s all but certain Alexandre _meant_ to kill Simone that night.

“My mother asked him for his help.” Simone meets Christine’s eyes, like she’s about to reveal something else, but what else is there? “And that’s how this started.”

Christine tilts her head. “How did your mother know him?”

Wait.

“She was a maid in his house, a long time ago and…” Simone stumbles over these words, relaxing just a touch when Christine’s hand goes to her cheek. “He…he’s my father.”

Lucien curses, the first time Christine’s heard such a thing. Meg gasps. Andre smacks a hand to his forehead.

Through it all, Christine has to think.

Raoul.

 _Raoul_.

She cannot lose Raoul.

She does the math in her head. Simone is a year older than Claire, Eloise and Alexandre’s oldest, so this must have happened just before their marriage. During their courtship, perhaps.

“She thought he would help us.” Simone sniffs, on the verge of losing composure entirely, and Christine’s entire person simply goes numb. That is, perhaps, preferable to the scream that’s buried itself deep in her gut, hot and coiled and trapped there, because there’s no time to let it out. “She said he gave her money when I was born, but then not again. I never met him, never knew, until she got very sick a few months ago and asked him for help.”

“This isn’t your fault,” Christine’s saying, but she doesn’t have space to say anything more, because the front door opens, and Philippe calls out.

He calls out Raoul’s name, specifically.

There’s the sound of other voices too, the voices of Madeline and Helene, who must have arrived home also.

“Christine,” Philippe says as he comes in, his eyes going immediately to the distraught Simone in the chair, then to the sight of a very alarmed Andre and a tearful Meg. “What ever is the matter?” He searches the room, his voice going tight. “Where is Raoul?”

Christine gets up from the floor, Meg taking her place with Simone. She leads Philippe into the smaller parlor, away from everyone else. She doesn’t know why, exactly, she just feels compelled to have a tiny bit of privacy.

Philippe removes his hat, half crumpling it before laying it down on a nearby table. “Christine,” he repeats. “Where is Raoul?” Red floods into his cheeks. “She told me she would stay home for today and I…”

“Philippe.” Christine takes his hands, because no matter her frustration with him, she loves Philippe, and this is the last thing he’ll want to hear. “Alexandre kidnapped Raoul. Alexandre is the person who’s been writing us those notes. Who hurt Simone. Who’s been responsible for all of this.”

Philippe stares at her. He stares at her and stares at her and _stares_ at her.

“ _Alexandre?_ No, it can’t be. He doesn’t need money, that doesn’t make sense. It must be a someone who needs money. A criminal element of some kind. The man’s frustrating I admit but he wouldn’t do this. He wouldn’t stoop to it even if he were in trouble.”

 _Criminal element_ means _poor_ , and Phillipe’s better than that, she knows he is, but anger settles deep in the pit of her stomach like a ball of fire, flames licking her insides. “Wealthy people are very capable of being criminals, and usually in a way that hurts people who have less than they do, I’ve found. I was poor too, before I joined this family. Before I was a prima donna in my own right. My father and I never had much, no matter how people admired his music. Alexandre did this. I’m telling you he did this.”

Philippe jolts, immediately apologetic. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Christine, truly I am. How…please tell me how you know. It’s rather a shock.”

Christine admits to going to check-in on the interview. She tells him about Jacques. She tells him about Simone. Philippe listens through it all, his free hand running back and forth through his hair until it’s entirely tousled and standing on end.

The red recedes from his face, leaving it sallow and shocked.

Then, he laughs. He laughs, and and it tangles up in knots with a dry, tearless sob, a sharp sound that cuts across Christine’s heart.

He turns away, grasping the back of an armchair like he can’t stay on his own two feet.

And it scares Christine to death.

“It’s happening again,” he mutters, more to himself than to her. “I couldn’t stop it again. I shouldn’t have left, I shouldn’t have…” he whips around toward her, tears streaming down his cheeks. His eyes widen, and he looks at Christine without seeing her, and then, in a moment, she’s all that’s in his view, like he can’t tear himself away. “Oh my god. He suggested the investigator, I should have seen it. Why would he do that?”

“To throw suspicion off himself and onto Erik, I think,” Christine says, taking one of Philippe’s hands. “To sow distrust between you and Raoul. Between you and me.”

Philippe squeezes her fingers like she’s his only anchor to the world. “Eloise…” He releases her hand to pace back and forth across the carpet. “God, Eloise. Do you think she knew, Christine?”

“I don’t know,” Christine says. She’s torn between the fact that she has rather a lot of experience with lying, manipulative men of this sort, so she can see how Alexandre might easily lie to his wife, and the fact that she and Raoul don’t keep secrets of this kind of magnitude. So either scenario could be true but a part of her—a large part—suspects Eloise. She doesn’t want to, but she does.

“Alexandre is that little girl’s father,” Philippe continues, muttering. “Which means he was dallying about when he was engaged, about to marry my sister.” He runs a hand over his face. “Eloise can’t…she wouldn’t do this to Raoul, surely, she wouldn’t…”

“Philippe,” Christine interrupts, gentle but urgent. “We have to do something. Now.”

Philippe nods, stepping toward the door. “The police. It’s time.”

Christine moves in front of him. “No.”

“Christine.” Irritation turns Philippe’s voice hard. “Yes. This is more important than anything with the opera and what might happen as a result.”

“It is,” Christine agrees. “It’s more important than anything, which is why I don’t trust the police to help us. Not quickly enough.” She plants her feet, looking Philippe in the eye. “I’m going to get Ismaël and Erik and bring them here. They’re the best suited to help us find Raoul. No procedures. No paperwork.”

Philippe stares at her again, like he can’t make sense of what she’s saying. “The _opera ghost_?”

His voice goes up as he speaks, and even though she tenses as it grows louder she doesn’t back down. She can do this. She can _do_ this. Whatever Philippe’s anger, he won’t cast her out. She knows that now.

“The opera ghost?” Philippe repeats. “Christine Daae you cannot seriously be suggesting it!”

“I am suggesting it, Philippe!” Christine’s shouting herself now, and the rarity of it makes Philippe pull back in confusion. “Ismaël and Erik are our best option. I don’t have time to ask the police who did almost nothing for us before. Who were rude and cruel to Raoul and to me just the other day.”

“That wretch…” Philippe’s voice goes low. “Tried to hang my sister from a portcullis!”

“I know that!” Christine’s voice goes higher, and it’s almost a scream. “I lived it. I _watched_ it and I’ll never forget it as long as I live. That night didn’t just happen to you, Phillipe!” She stops here, taking a breath as the long held-back tears spill from her eyes. “You’re not the only one who blames themselves for what happened to Raoul. I blame myself a little every day. Every _day_ , Philippe, when I see that scar around her neck.”

She breathes hard as the words come out. She long ago worked through blaming herself for what Erik did to her, learning and understanding that she did not ask to be lied to and manipulated and abused.

She didn’t realize consciously, until just now, that perhaps she still blames herself for what happened to Raoul that night. Raoul, her sweet, gallant, earnest hero, who almost died in that rope so she could be free. She feels what Raoul must have felt during Don Juan, during that long trek to the lair, that pain of not knowing what was happening, of having someone snatch away the person you love most, and it was up to you to save them.

Except she can’t get to Raoul as quickly. She doesn’t know where Raoul _is_.

Philippe puts his hands out to her again, and they’re visibly shaking as she takes hold. “I know, I’m sorry, Christine. I’m sorry. What happened that night wasn’t your fault. Nothing was your fault because it was _his_. You’re the reason Raoul is alive at all. The only reason. How can we trust him? Or his friend?”

“They’ve been helping us,” Christine insists. “If not for them we never would have gotten as close and I suspect that’s why this happened—Alexandre feared we were getting too close to uncovering the truth. Let me go get them, and you send someone for Juliette and Eloise. Please, Philippe. I need you to trust me. I’m asking you to trust me. Maybe I’m not as brave as Raoul, but I love her. And I would never do anything less than what’s necessary to get her back.”

“Christine,” Philippe whispers, as if he’s having a revelation. “You are brave. You couldn’t have survived what you did if you weren’t.” He closes his eyes, heaving a sigh. “I’d like to go with you, please to this…what was the ghost’s friend’s name?”

“Ismaël,” Christine supplies. “But…”

“Christine, I will not watch you go off without me. Not with Raoul…” he blinks, and more tears come. “Not with Raoul gone. I couldn’t stop anything from happening to her. I can stop it from happening to you, should Alexandre have any other plans.”

Christine softens and she would smile if her heart wasn’t threatening to break. “Yes. Yes, let’s go together. But Philippe?”

“Hmm?”

“You must promise not to murder Erik.”

He mutters something in agreement, before the two of them return to the others, Lucien having filled Helene, Madeline, and the just returned Victor on the turn of events. Marcel too, bless him, is waiting with a cup of coffee in his hands, ready to take them wherever they need to go. Philippe dispatches Madeline to retrieve Juliette and then Eloise, given they only live about a mile distant from one another. He instructs her only to tell them they’re needed at home, urgently.

Christine, meanwhile, has an idea.

“I think we need to keep Simone somewhere safe,” she says to the room at large, before turning to Meg, who is always there, who she can always trust, no matter what. “Can you take her home with you? I’m sure your mother won’t object. In fact, she may be a help.”

“Of course,” Meg says without hesitation, offering Simone a smile. “We’ll keep her safe, I promise you.”

Christine gives herself a moment to pull Meg close, because she needs it, she needs her friend, she needs to feel grounded, and Meg is warm and hugging her tight and it gives her strength. It does. She wishes she didn’t have to send Meg away, but she wants Meg safe, Meg, who just got engaged, who finally has the career she wanted.

That is, if things don’t fall apart, at the opera house.

“Thank you,” Christine says. “Andre, could you go with her? I don’t think anyone Alexandre might even suspect should be alone, and that way I can keep all of you easily updated. And please, don’t tell anyone about what’s happening, other than Laurent, Carlotta, or Piangi. I want to speak to Erik and Ismaël before we do anything else.”

“Yes, I agree.” Andre nods, looking verklempt. “Please do let us know if there’s anything at all we can do.” 

Christine presses his shoulder before squatting down in front of Simone once more. Simone won’t look at her, her skin scarily pale, and her eyes dull.

“I’m so sorry, Mademoiselle Christine,” she says, and the deadness in her voice is worrisome. “If you want me to go I…”

“No.” Christine rests her hand on Simone’s arm, and this draws the little girl’s gaze. “You were tricked. Manipulated. This is not your fault, _ma petite_.”

She says the term of endearment without thinking, really. She wants to protect this girl. She wants to help her.

She wants to make her safe.

Simone’s face changes at the affection. It warms, some color flooding back in. “Raoul, she told me that she came down to save you, with the opera ghost. The first one I mean. And she said that you ended up saving her.”

Christine leans forward, and the belief in Simone’s words makes her believe in herself. She tucks a hair behind Simone’s ear. “She likes to say she didn’t save me that night. But she did. We saved each other. And I’m going to get her back now. I promise you that.”

Madeline goes. Meg and Andre go with Simone and a quickly packed bag in hand. Then, Christine puts on her cloak, the dark red one she likes best, and she climbs into the carriage with Philippe at her side.

She rides into the night, to ask the ex-opera ghost if he’ll help her save Raoul de Chagny’s life. 

* * *

Ismaël jumps out of his skin when a knock on the door echoes through the flat.

“Jumpy, Daroga,” Erik mutters. “You’re not the wanted man, you know.”

Ismaël doesn’t even turn around, striding right for the door. “No, I’m just the immigrant hiding a wanted man.”

That, Erik supposes, is fair. He stays where he is in the cozy sitting room by the fire, the front door not quite visible from his perch, though he is well within earshot.

“Christine,” Ismaël says as he opens the door.

Erik jumps up.

“And…” Ismaël pauses, and there’s the tiniest crack in his voice, though it’s gone when he clears his throat, and Erik admires his steadiness, as usual. “Monsieur…”

“Philippe de Chagny.”

Erik stumbles, nearly catching his trouser leg aflame.

_What?_

“I thought you might be. You have your sister’s eyes. I’m Ismaël Khan.”

“Christine tells me you’ve been a great help. I appreciate that.” The comte clears his throat. “I’m not here to bring trouble. To you or your…friend.”

Oh there’s _rage_ in that single word. Erik hears it, melting every syllable.

What is the Comte de Chagny doing here? Erik knows he found out the truth, the message this morning said so, but coming to Daroga’s door like this?

He’s well and truly shocked.

He realizes, now, that he doesn’t hear Raoul’s voice. He has a penchant, for recognizing voices, even when people are just speaking, and he knows hers now. Lower than Christine’s, but not very deep or raspy. She would probably be on the higher end of alto, if she sang, perhaps hitting some lower soprano notes. She always has a direct, earnest quality to her tone, touched by a hint of the dreamy-headedness Christine so loves.

Where is she? If Christine is here, and her elder brother is here then…

“Ismaël,” Christine says, her voice crackling under the weight of congestion. “Raoul’s been taken. Alexandre kidnapped her from our house. Your suspicions were right.”

Erik stays where he is because he doesn’t know what to do. The Comte de Chagny is at his door. Christine is here. She’s here, and she’s going to ask something of him. Something the person he was that night in the lair could never have fathomed. Something that even then, as he watched Christine cry at his feet while she begged him, willing to toss her life away, as he watched Raoul gasp for breath, as he felt his own heart shudder when the twenty one year old girl he tried to murder collapsed to the ground, he might not have agreed to.

Releasing them was enough. Letting Christine be happy was enough. Allowing that girl to live was all he owed them. Helping them was out of the question.

But he did help, didn’t he? When Christine asked. He helped carry Raoul to the boat.

That, of course, is not the same as this, the question he feels coming.

Atonement.

Atonement.

_Atonement._

The word rings again in his head, mixed with the sound of shattered glass. Christine’s voice.

Raoul de Chagny’s violin.

All the sounds are notes, and the notes are a song, a new one he hasn’t heard before.

“Come in, please come in,” Ismaël’s saying. “We should speak.”

Erik keeps his place by the fire, too nervous to sit down. Nervous? That might not be enough to contain it all. Will the comte kill him?

It would be fair, really. Though he probably wouldn’t be so bold as this. 

The three of them round the corner into the sitting room, and Philippe de Chagny stops dead in the doorway.

He stares at Erik.

Erik stares back.

Christine opens her mouth, but whatever she might have said dies as Philippe strides across the room, seizing Erik’s collar and shoving him none too gently against the mantle.

“Monsieur le Comte.” Erik swallows, a jolt of fear shooting through him. Not that he isn’t capable of killing a man like this, but he told Daroga _no more murders_ , and he hasn’t the desire, besides, not when he’s trying to make good, but there’s a burning anger in the eldest de Chagny’s eyes that speaks to something else Erik fears.

Never earning Christine’s forgiveness.

And, perhaps, even if he doesn’t like to admit it, the irrefutable fact that he changed Raoul’s life forever. That he stole her hope. Did he? The girl _seems_ hopeful, but he’s seen her tired eyes, lately.

He doesn’t care.

He _does_ care.

No.

“If you make one move to harm Christine, or my sister, or any member of my family through this process,” Philippe says through gritted teeth, grasping Erik’s lapel tighter. “You will answer to me for it. Rest assured the arm you broke works just fine now. Enough to push you into this fire, say. Am I understood, monsieur?”

Sweat drips down Erik’s back, the fire warm and just a touch too close. “Perfectly.”

“Philippe,” Christine says softly. “We don’t have time.”

Philippe lets go, and Erik brushes himself off, moving a few feet away from the comte. Christine puts one gentle hand on Philippe’s shoulder before stepping over to him, and for a moment, they might be the only two people in the world. Christine’s still in her day dress, a sunny yellow that makes her curls stand out, worn with brown button boots. She’s as beautiful as she always was, but there’s something different about her. Something confident. Her hair is up in the respectable way of married women rather than down around her shoulders. Her clothing is well-made but still practical, which speaks to her roots in something rather less than the wealth she has access to now.

She knows herself. He doesn’t know her. Not like he thought he did.

She takes his hands. Of her own accord.

Her fingers are cold.

His own are always cold, and Daroga doesn’t like the jokes he makes about being dead already without noticing.

“I need your help, Erik.”

It’s strange, still, to hear her call him by his name. Not angel, not angel of music, just Erik. She says it without awe in her voice. Without wonder, because he is just a man, no matter that he sometimes still feels like a ghost. She looks him in the eye, and she is not afraid of him.

But she is afraid. Afraid of losing Raoul. To think she is here, asking him, when he tried to take Raoul from her. When he reveled in it.

He doesn’t deserve her trust, and yet here she is, trusting him with the person she seems most precious.

She will never stop astonishing him.

Christine looks behind at Ismaël. “I need both of you.”

Erik grasps Christine’s fingers a little tighter, an instinct to soothe her like a friend might, even if the words out of his mouth are contrary. “What do you want, Christine?”

Erik knows what she wants but the part of him that still hates Raoul, that still sees her as the foe who stole Christine from him even though Christine can’t be stolen because she was never his, really, wants to make her say it.

Defiance gleams in Christine’s eyes, and she seems to know why he’s stalling. What he’s thinking.

“I need you to help me get Raoul back. If you won’t, say so now, and I’ll leave with Ismaël. I don’t have time to play games.”

It surprises him, how easily she says it. She doesn’t side-step. She doesn’t avoid. She just says what she wants without worrying over his reaction. She does tense, like she’s waiting for him to explode, but it’s an echo of older fears healed over. Not entirely. But enough.

This is not the girl from the opera. The timid, trembling girl made so by grief and by _him_ and his manipulation, whose heroism roared to life deep down in the depths of the opera.

This is the girl she was before, the sweet, spirited, brave soul who met Raoul by the sea, turned into a fully grown woman.

The woman who survived him.

She is not begging him, like she did that night in the lair. She is not swearing anything.

She is simply asking, and she will do it without him, if she must.

An image forms in his mind, a memory of Raoul in the managers’ office with her hair loose and her reading spectacles slipping down her nose. The words she spoke stayed with him, and they appear golden now, in his mind’s eye.

_I knew the first time I heard her voice when I was nine-years-old, that she could be famous, if only the world would be quiet, and listen. And the more her father taught me to love music, to play the violin, the more I knew what magic was in her voice. Because that magic was in her._

Erik has never perceived himself to be a good person, but he told himself a hundred different times that Raoul was not a good person, either. She was shallow. Selfish. Foolish and stupid. That she was bound to grow tired of Christine at best, and use her at worst, to satisfy her own desires.

But Raoul is a good person. Not in some innate, static way, but because of her loyalty and her bravery and so many other things he tried to lie to himself about. The way she strives to take good care of the opera and the people who work there. The way she loves Christine. The way she stood toe-to-toe with him, willing to die to secure the freedom of the person she loved. The way she didn’t search him out and hunt him down, when she had every right to try. He thought it weak, at first, when she did not, because he wanted to challenge her, in his darkest moments, he wanted to fight her and hate her and he she was no coward, so why didn’t she come? Because of Christine? Because he let her go? He’s never been entirely sure.

He’s doing this for Christine. Almost entirely so.

But he would be lying if he said he wasn’t doing it, at least a little bit, for the girl whose light he almost snuffed out. For the young woman he’s grown to respect, even if he doesn’t like her. He could never like her, of course.

For Raoul.

“Yes, all right, I’ll help,” he mumbles, sliding his hands from Christine’s because it’s too much. “For you.”

Christine smiles, if such a sad thing can go by that name. “We need to go, then.”

“Go?” Erik questions.

“Home, to the de Chagny house,” Christine emphasizes, not unkindly.

“We can stay here just as well to sort it out,” Erik argues, crossing his arms over his chest.

“No we cannot.” The comte almost shouts, though he keeps himself in check. “I’ve sent for my other two sisters, one of which….” He stumbles here, resolutely not looking at Erik.

“Is the wife of the perpetrator, yes,” Erik finishes. “I’m sure she has something to do with it.”

“Erik,” Ismaël warns. “Please do find your manners.”

“As you wish, Daroga,” Erik replies, giving a slight bow. “Wait…” he looks at Christine. “Did that girl have anything to do with it?”

“Yes.” Christine raises her hand, cutting off Erik before he can say anything. “But not in the way you thought. She was being coerced, and we think Alexandre came to kill her. I’ve sent her to Madame Giry and Meg, along with Andre. We’ll tell you more on the way, we need to go.”

Erik watches as Christine embraces Ismaël, thanking him profusely. She did not embrace him, though he supposes that is entirely understandable. This leaves him alone with the comte for a moment. Philippe de Chagny is a tall, stocky, broad-shouldered sort of man, imposing, in his own way. Erik isn’t sure whether to look at him or look away from him, because the eldest de Chagny looks truly ready to murder him, his face red and his fists clenched like he’s been dreaming of this for months.

Upon further introspection, he probably has.

Erik brushes some ash from the fire off the sleeve of his black coat. “Your sister...” he clears his throat. “…Raoul. Plays the violin well.”

Philippe narrows his eyes. “What?”

“I said she plays the violin well.”

The comte does not seem to like this, for some reason, so Erik tries something else.

“I suspect she will be all right,” he continues. “She’s quite…resilient. She can hold her own.”

Philippe glares at him. “Yes. But she shouldn’t have to go through something like this. Again.”

Erik doesn’t know how to reply, but he doesn’t have to as Christine sweeps them out the door, and Erik finds himself shut inside a carriage with Ismaël, Christine, and Philippe de Chagny.

He finds himself on the way to help save the girl he once hated more than anything or anyone in the world.

And he wonders how he got here.

* * *

Raoul jolts awake.

She opens her eyes, surveying what’s around her.

She’s in a bed, though not a nice one, in a room with pale yellow walls. The air is cold on her skin, and there isn’t a fire of any kind—odd, for a late autumn evening.

She tries to move her arm, realizing, abruptly, that she cannot move it very far.

Because it’s shackled to the rickety metal bedpost.

She looks down at herself. She’s still in her skirt and her shirt, though her waistcoat, jacket, and shoes are missing. She didn’t have her overcoat on when Alexandre took her. The bracelet Christine gave her is there. Her wedding ring. Though if Alexandre thinks she won’t run out in her silk stockings to get away from him, he should think again. She would run out in just her chemise, if it came to it.

“I would let you move about this room freely,” a voice says from a dark corner of the room just before the gas lamps flicker to life. “But I know you’ve been taking those savate lessons like a regular street brawler, and I can’t have you attacking me.”

“Where did you get these shackles?”

Alexandre shrugs. “I _removed_ them from the desk of a friend at the police station. For a fee, you know. Some of the men in the _surete_ won’t take a bribe, but some will. They don’t know what I’m doing, if that’s what you’re asking. They just didn’t ask any questions.”

Raoul can’t move from the bed, but she does sit up. “Where are we?”

“That...” Alexandre raises one finger. “Is not information you’re privy to, my dear.”

“Call me dear once more,” Raoul growls. She shouldn’t make him angry, she knows she shouldn’t, but letting him do as he will doesn’t seem a good option either.

 _Nothing_ seems a good option.

Alexandre chuckles, stepping closer and resting his hands on the footboard. “You are so predictable, Raoul. Philippe should have had a firmer hand with you. I’ve always said so. Then perhaps you wouldn’t have turned into such a tart.”

_Useful enough for a harlot._

Erik’s voice echoes in her memory. What is it, she wonders, that draws dangerous men to wish her dead, when she has not set out to harm them, in particular?

_You play well._

Erik’s voice again, but more recent.

She wonders what Christine will do, when she realizes what’s happened. _Will_ she realize it was Alexandre? What happened with the interviews, and Jacques? Christine will ask Ismaël and Erik for help, Raoul feels certain of that. Whether Philippe will agree to it is something else, entirely. Philippe will want the police, and she understands why he would with this escalation, she only thinks it might not help. Or it will take too long.

Christine will want the most direct way, even if it means asking the opera ghost for help. She’s brave enough to do it. Will Juliette agree? Raoul thinks she might, even if she didn’t like it.

It is odd, to think that the first man who tried to kill her, might help save her from the second.

Of course, if Alexandre means to kill her. He must at least be thinking of it.

The question remains.

Will Erik help Christine, should she ask?

Christine and her siblings will come for her. She knows they will.

And yet, she fears it.

She doesn’t want them hurt.

“Call me a tart all you like, Alexandre,” Raoul seethes, and it’s enough to keep the heavy sludge of panic at the bottom of her stomach in place. “But you are no gentleman, kidnapping me like this. Extorting money. Injuring a child.”

A _thwack_ rings through the room when Alexandre smacks his hand on the wall, making Raoul jump. “I had no choice. _You_ left me with no choice.”

Raoul gapes at him. “What the devil do you mean _I_ left you with no choice?

Alexandre starts pacing across the room, breathing in and out through his nose like he’s trying to control his anger. Alexandre is not exactly known for outbursts quite like that, always keeping things quelled just beneath the surface, though Raoul’s seen the embers of things like this before, when he drinks too much or when someone argues too long with him. He’s sharp with Eloise, sometimes, though far more lately than ever before—they used to feed off each other, usually at the expense of others, disdainful of those they considered less than themselves. They used to hold court together at parties, gossiping with their friends about anyone who might be in attendance. It never seemed like love, exactly, and Raoul’s certainly accused Eloise of not loving her husband, but it was _something_.

“I was running low on the sort of funds needed to maintain shall we say, the lifestyle to which I had become accustomed.” Alexandre’s smirk spreads slick like oil across his lips. “Before your little escapade at the opera. My father ran down our family reserves and I had to spend money to mend our reputation after he died. To be seen, you know, and pay off his debts quietly. And then, I was going to use the money I gained from my marriage to Eloise—because it did become mine, when she married me, whatever progressive notions you may hold in your head—and use it to invest. Replenish. And then you had to go and ruin it.”

“Me?” Raoul asks. “I have no influence on your financial decisions.”

“But you do!” Alexandre shouts, his voice hard and echoing through the near empty room. “I lost that investment, you see. When the company discovered I was related to you. And half the money, too. I couldn’t do anything about their less than legal practices because then people would know I was running low.”

Raoul stares at him. “So you spent the rest of Eloise’s inheritance? That’s…Alexandre that’s a great deal of money. A lifetime’s worth.”

Alexandre storms up, slapping her across the face without warning or word. “It’s _my_ money. And because you lost me that investment, I eventually had to borrow to prevent myself the indignity of selling property or belongings. Of retrenching. To keep myself liquid.” 

Raoul’s cheek stings, and she makes no reply. She does think that regardless of whether he lost one investment, that Alexandre has been in far more financial trouble than perhaps even he wants to admit. And for what? He has never wanted for a thing in his life, and yet he managed to squander a fortune. Two fortunes.

“Nothing to say?” Alexandre smooths out his face, stepping away from her with his nose wrinkled. “You always have too much to say, I find.”

“So you wanted to extort money from me to make a new investment,” she says. “Is that it?”

“ _Finally_ you understand.” Alexandre steps further away, calmer than he was a moment ago, but she prepares herself for his rage.

“Philippe would have helped you. I would have helped you. Juliette and Francois would have helped you. Why would you do this? You cannot tell me this scheme is easier than selling or even renting one of your homes. Your mother’s house in Paris alone would merit a great deal of money, and she could live with you. There are other options than kidnapping me. Tormenting me.”

Alexandre stands by the window, the curtains pulled closed.

Raoul realizes she has no idea how long she’s been out, or what time it is, because her pocket-watch is gone, too.

“I would not ask Philippe de Chagny for help.” He fiddles with the curtain, staring out at nothing. “I did not want to hear his lecture. His insistence that he’s better than me.”

“He doesn’t think that.”

Alexandre spins on his heel so quickly it makes Raoul jump, though he stays where he is. “Yes he does. Do you honestly believe I would ask _you_ for help, Raoul? You, the absolute shame of your entire family?”

Raoul sucks in a breath, cursing herself for letting Alexandre hear. There’s a pause. A beat. He walks up to her again, his shoes making the floor creak.

“Yes.” He puts a finger under her chin, tilting it up and forcing her to look at him. “That’s right. And you sucked my wife in with your silly, embarrassing charade this past year. Took her attention and her time away from me. From our children. I’ve disliked you since you were a child but your choices as an adult are worth my hatred.” He moves his finger, shoving Raoul away like he’s disgusted he touched her. “I thought having the de Chagny name attached to my own would prove a boon, not a mark against me,” he says. “For all the sway my father held, he was never as well-liked—or as wealthy—as yours. Being higher in the ranks of nobility doesn’t do as much as it once did without those things, you see. I set my sights on Juliette, at first, you know, at my father’s behest. But she was engaged to Francois before I could even really begin. Eloise was more pliable. Eager. A touch desperate.”

“Eloise could have had anyone she wished,” Raoul shoots back. “She didn’t need you.”

Eloise couldn’t have known. She couldn’t have. Raoul won’t believe it. She would have, not so long ago, but not now. Not after the moment they shared just a few days ago.

She will give her sister the benefit of the doubt until proven wrong. She must try.

Alexandre smirks again, though it’s tighter this time. “She wanted me, Raoul. She wanted to be better than the rest of you, in some small way. The comte’s daughter wanted a marquis. I wanted the reputation and the wealth she brought with her. So we really are a perfect match.” He leans forward. “I know you think I don’t love her, but I do. I wasn’t in love, when we married, though I thought Eloise pretty enough. I was quite surprised to find myself falling for her. She schemes as well as I do. She cares about what I care about. I made sure of it, but the pieces were already there.”

“Does she know what you’re doing?”

Alexandre laughs. “No. And she won’t ever know if I have my way. But on the chance she did find out, she would choose me. Keep my secrets. I have no concerns about that.”

Words spill from Raoul’s mouth before she can stop herself. “If you’re so sure of her loyalty then why haven’t you told her the truth?”

Alexandre starts, like he wasn’t expecting the question. “I don’t want to worry her,” he says. “I need to get her away from her terrible influence first. Had you not almost gotten yourself killed I very seriously doubt that the two of you would have made up. It made her doubt. It made her soft. It made her forget how much she hates you.”

Tears prick Raoul’s eyes, though she keeps them back. “Eloise doesn’t hate me. I’m not a shame to my family.”

“She does. And you are.”

Raoul looks down, grasping the thin, threadbare blankets. “And just what are you going to do if they all find out you did this?”

Alexandre gives a dark, dry laugh that sends chills up Raoul’s spine. “I’m determined to make sure they won’t. Never you worry. Eloise thinks I’m tending to my ill mother, and Jacques said your strange Persian friend and that silly opera manager weren’t suspicious of him in the interview, so I got to you just in time, didn’t I? I pay him enough not to lie to me, and he’s in the midst of searching for the only person who might dare tell the truth. Who knows for certain, other than you.”

Oh god. Simone. _Simone_. Where did she go, after she ran out? Did she go back?

Christine will take care of her. Raoul trusts that. She knows that.

“You’re a monster,” Raoul spits. “Going after a little girl. What if that were Claire?”

Alexandre reaches into his pocket, something like regret—Raoul honestly isn’t sure—passing across his face. “She’s not. Keep my daughter’s name out of your mouth.”

Raoul furrows her eyebrows. “She’s my _niece_.”

“And I think it’s time for you to go back to sleep.” Alexandre pulls whatever he was searching for out.

A little tin box.

An injection drug kit, of some kind, as easily gotten as a bottle of Laudanum.

“I know better than to think I could trick you into swallowing a heavy dose of Laudanum again,” Alexandre says, taking out the syringe and measuring the dose precisely like he’s thought about this already. “So we’re trying something else. Just enough to make you shut your mouth.”

Raoul can’t move off the bed, but she can kick him. Hit him. Something.

She does just that as he sits down, her palm connecting with his face. Hard. The slap rings in her ears, but he keeps hold of the syringe, pressing his hand against her chest and laying her flat.

“Try hitting me again, kicking me, and I assure you…” he leans closer. Too close. “And I will send Jacques to find that whore of yours and kill her. Paris can find a new prima donna. She won’t be missed.”

Raoul goes still. Stiff. She doesn’t say another word.

“Yes,” Alexandre says. “I thought so.”

Her shirt sleeve can’t be rolled up high enough, so Alexandre takes a pocket-knife out, inelegantly cutting up the sleeve and ripping off the lace on the edge entirely.

Erik’s voice echoes again in her memory.

_Look at you, making me put my hands to a woman._

Alexandre’s inexpert touch makes the needle go in without precision, but it does go in with a sharp, painful pinch. He shoves her away again when he finishes, like he can’t bear to touch her.

“What’s your game, Alexandre?” she asks. “How does this end?”

Alexandre brushes off his clothes like he might be brushing off his rage. Like he might be brushing off _her_. “To ransom you, of course. I won’t be there, obviously, that would be foolish.”

“What’s the exchange? For me?”

Alexandre shakes his head, almost bored with her now. “Don’t be an idiot, Raoul. I’m not ready to give you up, just yet. We’ll see.”

He goes without another word, shutting the door behind him. Her stomach growls in protest, though there’s nothing but a pitcher of water and a single glass, so she takes long, gulping swallows of it before sliding under the thin blankets as best she can with her arm shackled.

It’s still so cold in here. Her chest aches.

The drugs start taking effect, a slow drowsiness sweeping over her. Her chest stops aching, after a while. It’s not entirely different from the effects of a strong dose of Laudanum, but it feels more powerful, and she’s sure using an injection was meant to make it so. She seizes the tin off the table, reading one word on the front as her eyes threaten to fall closed, sleep hovering around the edges of her mind even if it should feel impossible.

Morphine. 

* * *

Juliette de Chagny’s skin buzzes. Crawls. Itches.

Something is wrong.

Very, very wrong.

“Juliette, you’re making your nailbeds bleed,” Eloise says, taking Juliette’s hand in hers so she stops picking at the skin. “We don’t know what’s wrong yet.”

Juliette wants to say that Madeline knows, but she’s sitting up with the driver, perhaps in an effort not to divulge the information other than there’s trouble at home, and that’s Philippe’s doing, Juliette knows it is, because he’s trying to ease them into whatever’s happening.

As if she’s so breakable.

Though right now, she feels more so than she has in a long time.

“Something’s wrong, Eloise” Juliette replies, though she keeps hold of her sister’s hand. “It’s more than another fight between Philippe and Raoul. I know it.”

Juliette had to extricate herself from a crying Estelle as she left, putting her in her father’s arms even as she was crying, too. Estelle wanted to come with her, worried about Raoul and Christine, with whom she is deeply close. Henri was upset too, but Madeline asked specifically and only for her, for some reason, and she didn’t want to overcrowd.

“Where was Alexandre?” Juliette asks. “I thought he wanted you home.”

“He did,” Eloise answers. “But when I got in this afternoon he said his mother was feeling ill so he went to see to her. I left instructions with the servants to manage the children and send me word should something go wrong.”

Eloise’s widowed mother-in-law, more a proponent of the countryside, was convinced to move to Paris more permanently a year or so ago, her health not strong enough to manage a vast country house on her own.

“Juliette?” Eloise speaks again in a small voice. “Do you really think something terrible is the matter?”

Juliette studies her sister. It has always been up and down between the two of them. It wasn’t so when they were children, but it has been since, though improving, lately. Eloise has always cared more about what people think of her. She has always cared more about perception. Juliette doesn’t _not_ consider those things, but she doesn’t hold them close to her like Eloise, or even sometimes, Philippe. She has her friends and her family and that’s all she needs, even if a woman of her class and wealth should be eager to be seen. To climb.

She supposes she is like Raoul, in that way.

Raoul.

She remembers being fifteen and grieving over her lost mother as she held the baby close to her chest, swearing she would protect her. It was an easy job with such an eager, bright-hearted little girl, though not without bumps, of course. She could soothe skinned knees, and even an aching heart. And Raoul’s heart did ache, sometimes. When they lost their father. When Gustave Daae died and Raoul had to leave Christine. When she poured her heart out first to Philippe, then to Juliette, about how she felt for other girls, no doubt expecting them to be enraged with her. Juliette could not be, of course. How could she, when the world would give Raoul enough trouble for it? She had Raoul come visit for a few weeks in the country when Celine broke things off, distracting her with horse rides and outings, brushing her hair at night like she did when Raoul was little and telling her it would be all right. Raoul, hopeful and kind, was never so hard to soothe.

Then, that night came.

And things changed.

Philippe was ill and frantic. Eloise was furious. So it fell to Juliette to take over Raoul’s care from an exhausted, traumatized Christine, who had already done so much to keep Raoul alive.

There was no room for her tears.

“I’m worried for Raoul,” Juliette says diplomatically, taking Eloise’s other hand. “Especially after what happened to Simone.”

They don’t speak after that, remaining quiet on the rest of the journey home. Juliette all but jumps out of the carriage when they arrive, finding the curtains closed and blocking the windows entirely.

Odd.

She rushes in the house. Before Madeline. Before Eloise.

And what she finds in the main sitting room, she has no words to describe.

Philippe.

Christine.

A man who must be the Persian former police chief.

And…

A man in a white mask.

A wave of cold crashes over Juliette’s entire body. Goosebumps race up her skin.

“Juliette…” Philippe tries.

“What in all of God’s creation?” Juliette asks. “Is _that man_ doing in our house?”

“Juliette.” Christine gets up before anyone else can say anything, Eloise coming in and gasping at the sight before her. Christine takes Juliette’s hands. “Raoul’s been taken. Erik and Ismaël are here to help. Trust me. Please trust me.”

Juliette stares at her sister-in-law. Christine is not flighty, no matter how much some people might like to accuse her of it. Christine would not ask this man for help if she did not absolutely think it was necessary to do so. Christine might think somewhat better of the opera ghost than any de Chagny sibling, but she is not a fool.

Juliette’s defenses give out.

A sob pushes past her lips, and she cannot be calm. She cannot be the fixer.

Tears stream from her eyes and Christine pulls her close even though she must be in anguish, right now, too. Juliette has held Christine so many times. Dried her tears, and she’s grateful beyond belief that Christine is doing it for her, now.

Raoul.

Her darling, sweet, irreplaceable girl.

Not again. Not _again_.

She pulls back from Christine’s embrace, only now having the presence of mind to ask the most important question.

“Who took her?”

Philippe gets up, then. He gestures at Lucien and Madeline, who, for some reason go toward the front door.

The sound of it locking echoes in Juliette’s ears.

“Philippe,” she asks. “What’s happening?”

He squeezes her shoulder before walking past her and going over toward…

Eloise.

Philippe puts a hand on Eloise’s arm, and it’s tentative, concerned, and…something else, too. Eloise furrows her eyebrows, searching around the room in question before focusing back on their brother.

“The person who took Raoul,” Philippe begins, his eyes not leaving Eloise’s face. “Is Alexandre.”


	13. Take My Heart In Both Hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All eyes turn to Eloise as she's forced to accept the truth about her husband. Christine's emotions brim to the surface, and she's determined to be the hero her wife needs. As an unlikely group forms to get Raoul back, Raoul herself faces Alexandre again. 
> 
> And the real game begins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the nice comments, and continuing to read! If I didn't respond this time it's only because I had Election Brain, but I am always appreciative!

Eloise pulls her arm out from beneath Philippe’s hand. The silk on her coat sleeve slides against his fingers, the sound slick against Christine’s ears.

“Stop it, Philippe,” Eloise says, taking a step back from her brother. “I don’t know what private detective games you think you’re playing but it isn’t amusing.”

 _That_ sounds a bit more like the Eloise Christine first met. Sharp. Irritated. Condescending.

“I assure you I am _not_ playing games.” Philippe stays where he is, obviously not wanting to scare his sister, but there’s an edge to his words, an edge of suspicion. “Alexandre took Raoul.”

“Prove it to me!” Eloise shouts, and for once, it doesn’t make Christine jump. She looks back at Ismael and Erik, who, to their credit, are sitting calmly and behaving as if they have _not_ intruded on a deeply personal family matter. “He’s out visiting his ill mother, he’s not…” she trips over her words. “He didn’t do this.”

There’s a catch in Eloise’s voice, like she’s realizing something, like something’s coming together, but she doesn’t speak to it.

“Oh my god,” Juliette says from her place next to Christine, and she was so quiet after Philippe’s proclamation Christine almost forgot she was there. “He suggested the inspector.” She spins around toward Erik, gesturing at him in a way that indicates she doesn’t fear him, which Christine finds impressive. “He wanted us to think it was you. That you were tricking Raoul and Christine.”

Erik folds his hands over one knee. “I am many things, madame, but I was always rather clear about who was writing the notes.”

“Quite,” Juliette shoots back. “But rather less clear about who you were when you decided to trick a young girl into voice lessons from behind a mirror, don’t you think?”

“Juliette!” Eloise exclaims. “You can’t…you don’t _believe_ this, do you?”

Christine steps up toward Eloise, standing even with Philippe. “It’s true, Eloise. Simone told me the entire truth. Alexandre coerced her into helping him and Jacques, who, I might add, ran out of his interview with Ismael and Andre once he realized we were catching on. There is no doubt, other than to what exactly Alexandre wants, or what motivated him.” Christine pauses, squaring her shoulders and asking the question no one else wants to ask. “Did you know?”

Eloise gapes at her.

“Eloise,” Philippe prompts. “Did you know?”

“Oh I see.” Eloise shakes her finger in the air. “You locked the door because you thought I would try and run out to join my supposed madman husband, is that it?”

“Raoul is in trouble.” Christine keeps steady, but she wants to scream. “Serious trouble. We don’t have time to dally over this. Alexandre nearly killed Simone. He drugged Raoul. He’s willing to do whatever it takes to get money from us. That much is clear.”

“Eloise I insist that you tell us if you knew,” Philippe adds. “If he was threatening you, manipulating you, tell us, and we will protect you. I do not want to believe that you willfully engaged in any threat to Christine or your sister.”

Eloise tears her gaze from Philippe, looking instead to Juliette in a desperate kind of way, as if she’s searching for someone to argue, someone to say it couldn’t be Alexandre.

“Please answer, Eloise.” Juliette’s voice cracks. “Raoul could be in deep danger.”

“I didn’t know.” Eloise blinks, tears spilling from her eyes. “But I see all of you think so little of me that you believe I would do such a thing. Even when Raoul and I were arguing I would never have done something to hurt her like this.”

She turns away, going in the direction of the kitchen.

“Eloise,” Philippe warns.

Eloise spins back around, her eyes wide and full of tears. “For god _sake_ give me a moment, Philippe! I’m sure the servants will shout if I try and climb out any windows.”

Christine wants to say that they don’t have a moment, they don’t have a second, they need to figure this out _now_ , but she tells herself that an uncooperative Eloise will do them no good, and if she truly didn’t know, then the shock must be a nasty one. She was shocked, and she’s never even really liked Alexandre very much.

The question remains—if Eloise really didn’t know, will she help her husband now? Christine doesn’t like being suspicious of anyone, but paranoia beats in her veins. Not because she thinks Eloise is lying, but she worries that she might to protect Alexandre.

As much as things have improved with Eloise, Christine’s never been quite able to let go of that now infamous letter she tore up, and even more importantly, the way she treated Raoul for so long.

Philippe puts a hand on Christine’s shoulder as Juliette walks slowly over to the the settee, where Erik and Ismael are waiting. She stops in front of the latter, who rises up from his seat, removing his glove when she puts out her left hand.

“Juliette Lavigne,” she says, shaking his hand firmly. “Née de Chagny. I’m Raoul’s oldest sister.”

“Ismael Khan. I’m pleased to meet you, and I’m so sorry about Raoul. I promise I will do my best to help you find her.”

Juliette gives Ismael a little smile and moves to sit down herself in one of the chairs across from the pair. “I appreciate that. Truly I do.”

She does not, Christine notices, shake Erik’s hand.

Christine hurries over, taking the near empty teacup from the table before sitting in the chair next to Juliette’s. Philippe comes too, though he stays standing, one hand grasping the mantelpiece like he might be holding on for dear life. The fire crackles, and Christine hopes Raoul is warm, wherever she is. The cold makes her lungs act up, sometimes.

“This was really all we found.” Christine hands the teacup over to Ismael, who takes it. “Simone said she thought Alexandre drugged Raoul. Andre said this tasted like Laudanum. The bitterness.”

Ismael sniffs the cup, dipping his finger in as Andre did. “Andre was right,” he confirms. “You said you sent Simone away?”

Christine nods.

“Good. I think it’s best we keep her away, for her own safety, and because I think it wise to, for as long as possible, make the marquis think we don’t know he’s the culprit.”

Philippe turns from the mantel, arching one eyebrow. “Why?” he asks, in the tone of one who wants to toss Alexandre out a window as soon as possible.

Ismael takes a glass of water from Madeline with a soft _thank you_ as she comes in, her eyes red from tears.

“Because,” he continues. “I suspect he took your sister because he felt we were getting to close to finding out the truth. He wanted to try and prevent it. And from the look on Jacques’ face when he ran out of our interview, I’m not sure he’ll tell the marquis the exact details. I could be wrong of course, but I suspect I won’t be. I think he’ll want to keep him happy, for his own safety.”

Christine’s hand clenches around her own glass. “You think he’s more likely to hurt Raoul seriously if he believes himself caught.”

“He doesn’t think, he knows,” Erik chimes in. “He’s just trying to put it gently. If the marquis is willing to drug her once, he’ll do it again, if she does something he doesn’t like. He may even want to get rid of her to hide what he’s done. Or try to.”

“Erik,” Ismael chides.

“Christine deserves the truth, Daroga,” Erik argues, and it’s not unkind, exactly, just blunt. “They all do, if we’re to be serious about this. It’s as you said—he probably took Raoul because things were getting too close, and he saw the opportunity. The girl is the thing that might make him wonder. He’ll no doubt have sent that stagehand out to dispose of her, and we need to make him believe no one here has seen her.”

“How?” Christine asks, the blood pounding in her temples as she tries to focus even though she wants to cry. “We don’t know where Alexandre is.”

“He may return home at some juncture to try and keep to the story he told his wife about his ill mother,” Ismael adds, agreeing with Erik. “So it may serve us best if she was there, soon. I very much doubt he would hurt her. If money is the object, then he must be hiding some financial issue he didn’t want her knowing of. From what you were saying in the carriage, Christine, he is rather…obsessed with his image. That includes his wife and children.”

“There’s something else.” Christine looks over at Juliette, taking her hand. “Alexandre is…he’s Simone’s father.”

“He’s _what_?”

Eloise appears again, all of them so intent on their conversation they didn’t hear her re-emerge from the kitchen. Her light brown hair is mussed beyond repair, her nose red.

No one answers.

“Eloise,” Philippe says, gentler than before. “Come sit.”

“I will not _sit_.”

Eloise’s voice cuts across Christine’s skin, her patience wearing thin. She knows this must be a shock to Eloise, she knows what’s it’s like to feel absolutely betrayed by someone you thought you could trust, but Raoul could _die_.

Still, she gets up from her chair, trying trying trying to remain kind. “Simone told us, shortly after Raoul was taken.” She takes Eloise’s fingers, though Eloise’s grip stiffens. “It was before you were married.”

She does not say _it was during your engagement,_ because Eloise can guess at that, from Simone’s age.

Eloise shakes her head, pulling her hand from Christine’s. “Spare me the details. How do you know Simone isn’t lying, how do you know…”

“She has no reason to lie,” Christine argues, heat in her voice.

“She was helping him, if it is him, you said so yourself, just a few moments ago. She would have every reason to lie.”

“Though,” Juliette says softly. “Perhaps less so if Alexandre attacked her. He left dinner that night, Eloise. I didn’t think of it then, not in the slightest, but now…”

Eloise runs her hands through her hair again. “We’re in a room…” she points at Erik with one shaking finger. “With the man who tried to murder Raoul right in front of you, Christine! What are you thinking?”

“Eloise, please!” Christine shouts, surprising even herself, but even as everyone’s eyes go to her, she isn’t anxious, she isn’t afraid, because she needs needs Eloise to hear her. She needs everyone to hear her, and right now that means raising her voice.

Eloise stops.

“I know how horrible this must be for you to hear,” Christine says, back at a normal volume. “I know. And I know that perhaps you don’t trust me, but even if I’m not the person you wanted for your sister, I am the person who loves her. You can trust that.”

Eloise sniffs, wiping her eyes. “I do.”

“Then please,” Christine pleads. “We need your help.”

Silence lingers, and Christine honestly doesn’t know what Eloise might say. The tiniest bit of relief rushes through her when Eloise nods, worrying her lip as she sits down on the other side of Juliette.

“Just for clarity’s sake,” Erik says into the momentary pause. “I am not, in fact, interested in killing anyone. And I…I am sorry. About before. For whatever that may be worth to any of you.”

Erik’s eyes rove over to one of the portraits hanging above the fire, and Christine’s follow. The second portrait features a very young Raoul in the middle, surrounded by her siblings. There’s a close-mouthed smiled on her face as if she was trying not to outright grin, much, no doubt, to the frustration of the painter.

“Thank you, Erik.”

Christine speaks when no one else does, and it’s not an acceptance of the apology, but an acknowledgement of it. Has she even accepted the one he made to her? Perhaps she has, given that he’s sitting here in this room, but she hasn’t forgiven him.

That cannot be rushed.

Eloise, meanwhile, has turned her attention to Ismael.

“Will he hurt the children?” she asks. “Should I go to them now?”

Ismael shakes his head. “I cannot predict anything, but if he were going down that path, I suspect he would have. He’s fixated on Raoul and whatever perceived slight he feels she committed against him. We can discuss that, but right now, what’s most important is assuring him none of you believe it’s him, if possible, and trying to sort out where he’s taken your sister.” Ismael leans forward, folding his hands and speaking gently to Eloise. “Do you have any idea why he would do this? I know it is untoward to ask, but I must—are there money difficulties in your household?”

“I…” Eloise shakes her head, and Juliette, apparently convinced now that her sister had nothing to do with it, takes her hand, tears still glistening in her eyes. “No. In fact everything Alexandre did pointed to the opposite. He was making a new investment, he said he wanted to buy a chateau outside of Paris, in Sceaux or somewhere like that. Everything seemed as normal.”

“I wonder if the scheme was to get money to make the investment,” Philippe says, rubbing at his chin. “The fool, he could have asked me.” He studies his sister. “Eloise, didn’t he have something fall through, not long after everything at the opera? I only vaguely recall.”

“Something didn’t work out.” Eloise grasps the skirts of her dress, eyes darting nervously over to Erik. “But it didn’t seem to be an issue, really, just that the company he was interested in couldn’t get their affairs together, but he didn’t lose any money. Something to do with the railroad, I think. He didn’t really give the specifics, but he never really does, so that wasn’t abnormal.”

“And you said Sceaux,” Ismael continues. “Was that for certain?”

“No. It was just an idea. He likes the park there and it’s quieter than the center of the city even if it’s only a few miles out. He wanted the space without having to travel all the way to the countryside.”

“Hmm.” Ismael runs his thumb back and forth across his bottom lip. “I suspect he’s bought whatever house he had in mind already.”

“You don’t think he’s taken Raoul to the country?” Christine asks, her stomach churning at the idea, because a wasted trip to Alexandre’s ancestral home, even by train, would cost them too much time.

“He could have, but I think we’ll be able to tell that by whether or not he returns. It would also be no small task to get a drugged woman on the train, which would leave him rather a long carriage journey. Besides, it would make him look suspicious if he simply vanished without a word. Where is the country home?”

“Outside Manosque,” Eloise answers, her hand shaking within Juliette’s grasp.

“We ought not waste our time rushing there before we exhaust the possibility that he may be somewhere much closer by,” Ismael says. “If he told you he was going to his mother’s home to see to her illness, he will want to come home so as not to make you wonder where he is. I think his entire plan was to keep his identity a secret.”

“Then why kidnap Raoul?” Juliette asks. “Isn’t that a risk?”

“When people become overconfident they act foolishly,” Erik adds, keeping his eyes locked on his folded hands, his knuckles apparently of great interest. “When they think themselves the hero and they’re really the villain.” He clears his throat, preventing anyone from adding any commentary before he looks at Eloise. “This man is blaming Raoul for something, even if we don’t have the entire picture. Have you been having any arguments? Anything centering around Raoul?”

Eloise pulls back in her chair, glaring at Erik. “That’s a deeply personal question. And why should I answer you, of anyone? You almost killed Raoul.”

Philippe heaves a sigh, but he’s softer with Eloise than before. “Please answer the man, Eloise.”

“Oh, so you’re friends with the opera ghost, is that it?” Eloise huffs. “This night has no end of horrors.”

“I assure you I am not,” Philippe cuts in sharply.

“He nearly shoved me into the fire,” Erik informs them. “So, I would not call us friends. An answer if you please, madame. We don’t have time to waste.”

There’s an edge to Erik’s voice, and if _Erik_ is concerned then Christine knows there is _reason_ to be so. Anxiety washes over her, leaving pinpricks across her skin and making it flush hot and numb all at once, somehow. Her anxiety is slow and lingering where Raoul’s comes like a thunderclap, and now is no exception.

“Alexandre has never been…” Eloise hesitates, searching the room like she wants to avoid what she’s about to say next. “…Raoul has always frustrated him.” Red creeps into her cheeks. “For a while we shared that frustration, and I do regret the way I treated my sister. Greatly. The past year or so has seen us on the way to mending the rifts between us, and sometimes…sometimes I think Alexandre was annoyed by the amount of time I was spending with my siblings, recently. We did argue over it once or twice but I didn’t think he would do something like this. I didn’t think he would hurt her. It never even crossed my mind.” She looks to Ismael, her eyes filled with tears. “Do you think he’ll try and kill her?”

Ismael reaches across the space between them, patting Eloise’s hand. “I truly hope not. We will do our best to get to her before anything happens, but for that we’ll need your help. And it will involve a bit of risk on your part.”

Eloise sits up straighter in her chair. “Anything for Raoul.”

Christine excuses herself while Ismael talks things through with Eloise. She hasn’t had a moment to herself since this began, and she desperately needs one. She goes upstairs because that’s where she feels safest, though her heart twinges as she steps into the suite of room she shares with Raoul. Everything is as they left it earlier, right down to the discarded jacket across one of the armchairs that Raoul changed out of at the last moment. She can’t go into the bedchamber, she finds, not yet, though she will have to sleep eventually, won’t she? The sitting room is all she can manage, right now. Raoul’s violin case rests on the table where they so often leave the books they’re reading, or other knick-knacks from their day. The anxiety she felt earlier rushes through her, and she can’t even cry. She wishes she could. She thought she would, a half hour ago.

She rests her head in her hands, and tries to breathe.

In. Out. In. out. The air comes into her lungs, and she’s alive. She’s alive and she will help Raoul.

A light knock on the door makes her glance up, a knock that sounds like Juliette’s.

“Christine?” Juliette asks as she opens the door a crack. “I’m sure you need a moment, I just wanted to make sure you were all right.”

Christine gestures her inside, and Juliette sit down in the chair across from her. Raoul’s chair. She takes Juliette’s hands, finding her fingertips cold and hoping she might warm them. Juliette smiles, and then Christine asks the question brimming to her lips. The question she wishes she didn’t have to ask, doesn’t want to ask, but she must.

“Can we trust Eloise to do what Ismael’s asking? To go to the house and trick Alexandre into believing we don’t know who took Raoul, if he does return? I want to believe we can, I just…”

“I know.” Juliette squeezes Christine’s hand, her voice hoarse. “You, of all people, have every reason to distrust my sister. The way she treated you at first did not endear her to you. But I know that look in her eye. I know how much she wants to make things better with Raoul. She’ll do this. Even if you can’t bring yourself to trust her, you may trust me.”

Christine nods, and still, she can’t cry. “He’s her husband. The father of her children. I can imagine how that would feel.”

Juliette pulls Christine’s hands toward her, putting a kiss on her knuckles. “Yes. But she’ll do it. I know she will.” She pauses, tucking a stray curl behind Christine’s ear. “You were right. To bring Ismael and…Erik here. I think they’ll help us get to Raoul, and you were brave for risking our discomfort. I imagine Philippe took some convincing.”

“Yes,” Christine says, and she would laugh if not for the fear racing through her veins. “But he heard me, in the end. Are you all right?”

“No, but a bit better after you let me cry on your shoulder earlier. Thank you for that.”

“Of course,” Christine whispers. “You’ve done it for me plenty of times.”

Juliette gets up, pressing a kiss to Christine’s curls before she goes. Christine is alone for only a moment or two before there’s another knock at the door.

Erik.

“Madame Lavigne said that if I upset you she would toss me out immediately,” he says, remaining firmly in the doorway. “Though I did ask the comte if it was all right with him before I transgressed past the stairs.”

A wryness accentuates his words. Not a cruel amusement, but something more like the man Erik perhaps is beneath it all.

“You may come in past the door.”

Erik raises his eyebrows. “It is not, I think, proper for me to do so.”

“Erik.” Christine sighs. “I think we’re well beyond that, don’t you?”

Erik tentatively steps in, asking before he sits. That’s the second person sitting in Raoul’s chair that isn’t Raoul, and Christine misses her with a deep, pounding ache. All she can see is Raoul’s face. Raoul’s smile. All she can hear is Raoul’s laughter and how she speaks softly when she calls Christine _darling_ , like there’s no one and nothing more precious.

Tears spring to her eyes.

And she speaks the words she never intended to say out loud to the man in front of her.

“Why can’t I protect her? Why can’t I _ever_ protect her?”

“Christine,” Erik says in that soft, melodious voice, though it’s different than before, full of vulnerability and not meant to cast a spell. “You have.”

Christine shakes her head, tears finally _finally_ spilling down her cheeks. “No. I couldn’t protect her from you. Not from Alexandre. Never.”

Why is this happening now, in front of Erik? It’s not as if he hasn’t seen her cry but still she…

Her thoughts cut off as Erik puts his hand out to her. She almost says _no_ , she almost says _get out_ , but there’s something in his expression, the expression she’s learned to read beyond the mask. She nods, letting him grasp just the tips of her fingers, and no more.

“I was determined to kill that girl,” Erik continues. “You couldn’t have stopped me from the worst of it. That was not some weakness on your part. No one could have stopped me. But in the end you did protect her life. She’s here now because of you, and you couldn’t have known that the marquis would come into this house and take her. You are doing everything you can to get her back." Erik pauses here, his words wavering. “Two of things I remember most about that night, things that I haven’t been able to forget even when I wanted to, are that Raoul de Chagny is braver and more selfless than I could ever be, and that you…” his voice cracks. “…that you are stronger and more resilient than I ever gave you credit for.”

Christine _sobs_.

Erik tightens his grip on her fingers, a little, perhaps, like the father figure, the teacher, she thought he was. He is not warm like her father, he is not the same at all, but he is something, suddenly. He is different from the ghost she left behind.

“I _love_ her.”

She meets Erik’s eyes, and there’s something shining in them. Tears. The light of the lamps. She isn’t sure.

“I know,” he says, squeezing her fingers before letting go. “And that’s why I’m going to help you get her back.” 

* * *

Eloise drums her fingers on the breakfast table, the sound echoing in the quiet. She sent Claire and Jean-Luc over to Juliette’s house, where Francois is managing things. She knows that Ismael said Alexandre wouldn’t target her or the children, but she wants them safe.

Just in case.

How she will ever tell them their father kidnapped their beloved aunt, that their father is a liar and a criminal, she doesn’t know.

Her head spins, and the perhaps two hours of sleep she got last night aren’t helping matters. She sips idly at her coffee, her heart hammering.

Someone kidnapped her baby sister.

And that someone is her husband.

Her husband who is also the father of an out of wedlock child. Who, if she’s calculating correctly, was unfaithful to her during their courtship. Perhaps even after he already proposed. Whatever anyone might say, she loves Alexandre, and she always felt he loved her. It is of course not unheard of for a man to do such a thing—mistresses abound in Paris and some women don’t mind, but she _does_ mind. She was never with anyone, before her marriage, and even though she suspected that was not the case for her husband, she didn’t think he would sleep with another woman when he had already put a ring on her finger.

That, however, pales in comparison to the fact that she thought they were a good match. Partners. He paid far more attention to their children than her father ever did to her, especially after their far more attentive mother died and he was lost in his grief. He was warm with them, in his way. When she wasn’t getting along well with her siblings, Alexandre was there. He tugged at some of her less admirable instincts, perhaps, but he understood her, she felt. That’s faded a bit in the past year, but she assumed it fixable, that he would warm to her family and eventually revel in her renewed relationship with them.

Oh, how wrong she was.

She doesn’t know what to make of anything now, she doesn’t know what will happen at all, but she has to focus. She has to think. She has to put away the fact that at first, Juliette and Philippe questioned whether or not she was a part of this, and her anger over that. She has to forget that Christine might still not trust her to do this.

She has to help Raoul.

That’s all that matters.

She owes her sister that.

The front door opens, and there’s the sound of their housekeeper speaking to someone, and a deep voice answering.

Alexandre.

She sits up straight in her chair, taking a casual sip of her coffee as her husband walks in.

“My dear,” he says as he comes inside the breakfast room. “I didn’t hear the children. Where are they?”

A hint of suspicion makes his voice sharp, and she takes a deep breath.

_Calm, Eloise. Calm._

If she can face Parisian high society, she can do this. She’s a key player in the most sought after social circle, after all, and one doesn’t attain that without being able to stand up to pressure.

“They’re with Francois, right now, so they could play with their cousins and not be underfoot. We’ve had some terrible news since you were at your mother’s.”

“News?” Alexandre asks. “What news?”

“It’s Raoul,” Eloise begins. “She’s missing.”

Alexandre sits down, a look of shock passing across his face. A look she would believe if she didn’t know the truth. It tempts her, for a moment, to hope that her siblings are wrong. That they must be wrong.

She knows they aren’t.

She knows because breezy as his air might be, she knows him, and he doesn’t seem himself. His immaculate dark hair is tousled. His clothes are wrinkled. He’s pale, purple smudges prominent beneath his green eyes.

“Missing?” he questions. “Why ever didn’t you send me word?”

“You were with your mother,” Eloise answers. “I didn’t want to trouble you when there’s nothing you can do. How is she?”

“Still unwell.” He studies her with intent, as if he’s searching for a lie. “The doctor thinks it might be influenza of some kind. I’ll have to go back, I just came to refresh myself, but what could have possibly happened to your sister? Is there anything I can do?”

“We don’t know if someone took her, whoever has been pestering them at the opera, I mean.” Eloise keeps her voice even here, releasing her coffee cup so she isn’t tempted to clench her fingers around it. “Or if she’s cooling her head after her fight with Philippe. Christine is worried sick. We all are. And what’s stranger is that the little girl, Simone, is gone too. No one knows where she went. It makes me believe there was foul play of some kind, more than Raoul simply wandering off on her own in a temper. Especially without Christine.”

Alexandre shakes his head, reaching across for her hand and grasping it in his own. She forces herself not to flinch, remembering Ismael’s words to her as the opera ghost peered at them.

_Act normally. He wants to impress you, not hurt you. That’s why I consider it safe for you to be around him. Don’t suddenly act annoyed with Raoul, when he knows you’ve been warming to her. Act as you have been._

Ismael himself, along with Philippe, are waiting in a carriage not far away, though out of sight of the house, leaving Christine at home with Juliette and worryingly, in Eloise’s view, with the opera ghost.

She still doesn’t trust the man.

But despite her anger at Philippe for even thinking she could be a part of this, she can rest easy in the idea that he wants to protect her.

It is, she supposes, not wild to think she might have known something, not when her relationship with Raoul was…

Well, she’ll think about that later.

“Did Philippe finally contact the police?” Alexandre asks. “They should have, before. Raoul was being stubborn about that. Philippe should have gone, whatever arguments she or Christine made.”

Here she treads carefully. They don’t know if Alexandre has any friends with in the _surete_ , though she at least doesn’t know of any herself. Ismael seemed confident that he would be too focused on getting back to his victim to go asking questions around the police station.

“Yes.” She lowers her voice, real grief running through it, mixed in with the lie she’s telling. “But with so little information about who this person might be, even with the help of that ridiculous opera ghost and his friend, they don’t have very much to go on, and they already don’t like Raoul.”

Alexandre lifts her hand, pressing a kiss to it. “I would come to Philippe’s with you, but I’m afraid I have to tend to my mother. I’ll have to spend the night to make certain the doctor does as he ought to. Is there anything I can do from there?”

Eloise shakes her head. “I don’t think so, I just…I can’t think of who would do this.”

Her heart hammers as she speaks, sweat trickling down the small of her back, but when Alexandre looks at her, he doesn’t seem suspicious.

“Are they quite certain it’s not the opera ghost playing a trick?” he asks. “That’s the most obvious answer to me. Raoul trusted him to help and now she’s missing.”

“Christine hasn’t had any contact with the ghost or his friend since Raoul went missing.” Eloise tells another lie, and it’s thick on her tongue. She’s argued with Alexandre, but she’s never needed to lie to him.

It’s clear he’s told a hundred lies to her.

“So,” she continues. “Perhaps it could be.”

Alexandre stays home longer than she wants him to.

She waits downstairs with her coffee while he changes his clothes, packing a bag for overnight.

And all the while, she wonders what her life will be like after this is over. He’ll be arrested, no doubt, if they’re able to prove it, if they’re able to save Raoul, and then…

And then…

Her life will change forever. People will stare. People will talk. She can’t picture mere hours from now, let alone days.

Part of her wants to confront him now, to get Philippe and demand Alexandre tell her where Raoul is, but if he’s left someone like Jacques wherever he’s keeping her, Raoul might be dead before they can ever get to her. That’s what Ismael said, and the damn opera ghost too. If they accost Alexandre, he won’t admit to it. She knows him well enough to know that.

They have to make him think Simone is missing, too, or her life will be in danger again. She at least thinks she pulled that part off well enough.

A while later, as Alexandre bids her goodbye and walks out the door, she knows her husband, the man she’s built her life with, is gone.

Now, it’s time to save her sister.

It’s time to figure out where he’s keeping Raoul.

She waits twenty minutes to be safe, and out of view of the servants, steps into Alexandre’s study.

And starts searching. 

* * *

Raoul groans as consciousness returns, and at first, she doesn’t remember where she is.

When the cold metal shackle cuts into her arm as she tries to move, she does.

“Finally,” a familiar voice says. “I didn’t think you’d ever wake up.”

Raoul sits, her chest aching in the drafty room. Her mouth is dry, and her stomach growls in protest.

“The marquis said if he wasn’t back by two in the afternoon I was to kill you,” Jacques continues, sitting in the chair across the room with a small sheathed knife in his hands, toying with it in a way that makes Raoul’s blood run cold. “It would appear we have about three-quarters of an hour before that deadline.”

Raoul’s heart races, and she doesn’t sense a bluff. Whatever happens, she’ll fight, even if her options are limited. “Why?”

Jacques stops spinning the knife. “In case they suspect him, of course. We have to get rid of the evidence.” He swallows, and there’s something in his voice, something off, Raoul just doesn’t know what. “I’ve been out all night looking for that brat. Where did you send her?”

Raoul blinks, forcing herself awake and pushing the sludge of the morphine away. How long was she out? She has no concept of what time Alexandre drugged her, but if Jacques’ threat just now was any indication, it must be around a quarter past one. Alexandre took her around five in the evening, but how long the carriage ride was, or even where she is, remains a mystery.

“She ran out to get away from my brother-in-law.” Raoul speaks through gritted teeth, her fingernails digging into her palms. She can’t afford to anger Jacques too much, when she’s trapped here. “I hope she’s somewhere safe.”

Images of Simone and Jacques talking together in the opera house clarify in her mind, and there was never anything about the stagehand that seemed suspicious. He was never rude, he got along with the other men, and she just wishes she could have _seen_ this, before.

She was so happy she wasn’t looking for it, and she refuses to regret that.

“Why are you doing this?” she asks. “What do you get out of it?”

Jacques shrugs. “He made me an offer. There’s not much to it.”

“An offer good enough to hurt a child?” Raoul questions, drawing a flinch from Jacques. “Playing tricks on me in the opera house is one thing, but that?”

“It’s too late now,” Jacques grumbles. “Shut your mouth and eat your bread. You might be wanting it if I don’t have to kill you.”

His voice trembles ever so slightly there, and Raoul, ignoring the crust of bread on the table beside her rickety bed, digs in.

“What happened when Ismael and Andre interviewed you?” she asks.

“Nothing,” Jacques snaps.

“You’re lying.”

“Quiet!” Jacques shouts. “Quiet,” he repeats, and he’s _lying_ she _knows_ he is.

She would bet money that he’s lying to Alexandre, too.

Jacques goes to stand outside the door when she demands privacy to relieve herself. He won’t unchain her to let her find the commode, pointing to a crude old chamber pot tucked beneath the bed.

Lovely.

She takes the precious few moments alone to think.

What are her siblings and Christine doing, she wonders. Did they figure out the truth or do they not know Alexandre is the culprit? Where did Simone end up and was she able to find safety and relay what happened? And how are Ismael and Erik playing into this situation? She doesn’t know. She doesn’t know anything about what’s going on or where she is and it’s starting to make her feel a little mad. A door opens distantly, and she has only a minute to think of Christine, to think of Christine and how worried she must be, before Jacques comes back in, accompanied by Alexandre.

Alexandre’s dressed in a fresh set of clothes, and he pulls out another tin kit of morphine, laying it wordlessly down next to the crust of bread as he steps up close to her.

“It would seem our little friend Simone is nowhere to be found, Raoul,” he says, leaning against the windowsill. “Good for her, I suppose, but better for me. She was too cowardly to help you.”

“What?” Raoul questions. “Where have you been?”

“Why to see Eloise, of course,” Alexandre answers as if this is obvious, idly checking his pocket watch. “She told me no one has seen Simone, and they assume her missing just as you are. She was your only chance, you know.”

Raoul stares at her brother-in-law. “My only chance for what?”

“For anyone to know I was behind this.”

Raoul wants to say that they aren’t fools, that she realized it almost as soon as he walked in the door, the swallowed words cutting her throat as they slide back down. She’s brash, but she’s not stupid.

They’ll figure it out. They’ll come for her.

What happened to Simone? Her not returning to the house seems strange, but Raoul doesn’t have enough information to make sense of it. She only hopes Simone is all right.

“They’ll never figure it out.” Alexandre echoes her thoughts. “So they can’t come for you.”

Raoul leans forward. “What’s your game, Alexandre?”

“My game,” Alexandre says, taking a piece of paper out of inside jacket pocket, his voice going higher in mockery. “Is to wring as much money out of Philippe de Chagny as possible in exchange for his precious little sister. That is, if he finds you worth saving. Perhaps he’ll be glad to be rid of you, after all of your embarrassing stunts. If so, I have a plan for that too.”

Raoul glares at him. “You aren’t going to exchange me for it, I assume, so how is that going to work, exactly?”

Alexandre doesn’t answer.

“What did Eloise say when you saw her?”

“What?”

“I _said_ ,” Raoul pushes here, hoping to gain at least some idea of what anyone she loves might be thinking. “What did Eloise say when you saw her?”

A long, deep silence permeates the room, broken by the sound of the floor creaking beneath Alexandre’s shoe as he lunges forward, seizing the collar of her ruined shirt and shoving her against the headboard. Her head throbs at the impact, but she slides her knee up so he can’t entirely pin her down.

“Ask me about my wife again,” he seethes. “And see where it gets you.”

Raoul puts her sarcastic comment aside in favor of survival. Alexandre releases her, tossing the crust of bread down into her lap.

“Eat,” he commands.

Raoul doesn’t want to do anything he says, but she hasn’t eaten since yesterday and if he drugs her again she’ll need it, or the effects will be worse. She’s heard enough about morphine overdoses to know their danger, and she doesn’t know if he’s trying to kill her with it or simply keep her quiet.

He does mean to kill her, doesn’t he? To make her disappear, somehow. Jacques said it himself.

So why doesn’t he just do it now?

Still, it buys her time. Much as she fears anything happening to her loved ones if they come to rescue her, it’s not the same as with Erik, trained assassin that he is. Alexandre is clever, but he’s not naturally a killer, and could be overcome by someone else, certainly. If there’s one thing she’s learned since that horrible night in the lair, it’s to let other people value and protect her. It’s not easy, and sometimes she fails at it, but she knows, now, not to devalue herself to the point of destruction.

She eats the stale bread until it’s gone, gulping down some more water. Her chest keeps aching, the cool air in here making her lungs hurt, but she won’t ask Alexandre for anything, because he won’t give it to her anyway. Something so small as a fire would be too much kindness.

Christine’s face appears in her mind. That soft smile. Those eyes. The way she loved and loved and _loved_ Raoul in those weeks after the lair until Raoul loved herself again. Philippe’s face comes next, and it comes with a pang as Alexandre’s words echo inside her memory.

_Perhaps he’ll be glad to be rid of you, after all your embarrassing stunts._

It’s not true, she knows it isn’t true, she heard the love in Philippe’s voice even as they screamed at each other, but the words reverberate against her skull, and they do not entirely vanish. Juliette comes after that. The disappointment in her voice, but still that warmth as she kissed Raoul’s cheek. She sees Eloise, too, Eloise, whose husband has lied and lied and lied to her.

Alexandre retrieves the tin morphine kit, shoving Raoul’s sleeve up again.

“The same rules as last time apply,” he tells her with a glance over at Jacques. “Fight me, and I’ll send Jacques to kill the chorus girl.”

Raoul doesn’t say a word as he injects her a second time, one hand grasping her wrist hard until she’s certain it will bruise. He curls his lip and shoves her away like he did before, as if he can’t bear to touch her.

“Who are you sending to retrieve the money?” Raoul asks, a surge of fear shooting up through her. “Don’t hurt them. I’ll do whatever you want.”

Alexandre chuckles, low and dark, pulling something else out of his coat pocket.

A mask.

A white costume mask.

Raoul gives a full body jolt, a flash of a memory striking her like lightning, a memory of falling and hitting the ground in a dark room full of mirrors, and a man in a white mask.

The first time she saw Erik, rather than just hearing his voice.

The old memory creates old panic, but the panic itself is almost a memory too, because it’s not Erik she fears now, even if what he did to her left wounds that will always ache, sometimes. Physically and emotionally.

It’s what Alexandre intends to do with that mask that makes the panic she knows so well rush through her, because he must intend to hurt one person the most with it.

Christine.

“That,” Alexandre says, lingering on the word. “Is none of your business. But I’ll have a bit of amusement with it, regardless. I do take pleasure in scaring that singer of yours.”

He beckons Jacques to follow him as he exits the room, the lock clicking ominously behind him.

Raoul lays there. She lays there and she lays there and she lays there, and she doesn’t know for how long. Her stomach hurts. Her shackled wrist aches. Her head throbs. She runs a finger over the golden bracelet Christine gave her when this all started, and touching it soothes her. She’s surprised Alexandre hasn’t taken that or her wedding ring, but then, perhaps it hasn’t occurred to him. If he doesn’t think her relationship is real, then perhaps the small things that go along with it aren’t real to him, either.

She isn’t real to him. She’s just an embarrassment. A way to get what he feels he’s been denied.

She fiddles with the sapphire on the wedding ring. The ring with Christine’s name engraved on the inside. The ring Philippe gave her.

Her brother loves her. Her brother _loves_ her. She repeats the words again and again and again.

Drowsiness sweeps over her, and she pulls the thin blankets over herself as voices fill the hallway outside her room—Alexandre’s, Jacques’, and some other male voice she doesn’t know. Strange, overbright, distorted images fill her head as she shivers, three words reaching her ears before unconsciousness claims her for its own.

 _Take this to the de Chagny house_. 

* * *

“Philippe, dammit, I looked everywhere!” Eloise all but screeches, edging, to Christine’s ears, very close to tears. “Do you think I wouldn’t search high and low? Raoul is my sister too!”

“She was kidnapped by your husband!” Philippe roars, his voice cracking in two. “Think, Eloise, I’m begging you to think! You keep saying he wanted to buy a house in Sceaux but not knowing where leaves us with nothing.”

Their shouting turns into a cacophony, only Juliette’s _calm down, both of you_ sticking out among the noise.

Even from a room away, the voices still sound so _loud_ , though the shouting doesn’t affect Christine as much as it normally might. Raoul’s situation has drowned out everything else, every dark corner of her mind that Erik created gone quiet.

That said, it’s odd to have Erik sitting across from her.

“Do they usually fight like that?” Erik asks.

“Not like that,” Christine echoes, privately thinking that Eloise and Raoul have fought in the way she hears Philippe and Eloise doing now, but she keeps it to herself. Eloise really does seem to be trying her best, and Christine wants so much to give her the benefit of the doubt, but it’s difficult when they’ve never really discussed the awkwardness between them, they’ve just tried to move forward. She plays with her wedding ring, the pad of one finger running across the ruby. Raoul is gone, but this connects them. This soothes her.

She will get Raoul back. She will get Raoul _back_.

Energy buzzes through her. She wants to _do_ something. She doesn’t just want to sit here.

“Here,” Ismael says, interrupting her thoughts and pushing the teapot toward her. “You should drink some.”

Christine’s stomach rebels at the mere thought of tea. “I’d rather not.” She wrinkles her nose. “I’ll take water, if I must.”

“You must,” Erik mutters, sounding something like a disgruntled uncle as Ismael pours Christine a glass.

Christine drinks it, and…when did she eat last?

This morning, that’s right. She woke up starving because she didn’t eat before being forced to sleep. Things like eating and sleeping and drinking seem so foreign, so needless, when Raoul is missing, when Raoul could be hurt, but she must keep doing them. She must keep strong. She must think.

“I’m going over with Eloise to help her look,” she pronounces. “There must be something there.”

Ismael smiles at the proclamation, but Erik furrows his eyebrows.

“And if the marquis shows up?” he asks. “It’s dangerous, Christine.”

Christine crosses her arms over her chest, giving a huff. “I don’t care if it’s dangerous. You and Ismael said that Alexandre showing up this morning means that he can’t have taken Raoul to the country, so it must mean that he has her somewhere not terribly far away. I refuse to sit here.”

“Christine,” Erik argues.

“I am not soliciting your opinion on this,” Christine shoots back. “Eloise said Alexandre wouldn’t be back until the morning. We have time.”

Erik stomps his foot. “And you trust her?”

Ismael picks up his teacup, resolutely not looking at his friend. “I believe Madame de Taillefer is telling the truth, Erik.”

“Oh please.” Erik releases a sharp breath through his nose. “Because you’re such an expert on lying. You’re too optimistic to know.”

Ismael takes a long sip of his tea. “And you too cynical. I always know when you’re lying. I just can’t always figure out what the truth is, or stop you from being foolish.”

“You’re not helping, Daroga, and I…”

Erik stops, suddenly, looking out the sliver of visible window at something Christine can’t see. He jolts up without a word, running toward the front door. Christine gets up just in time to see him wrench it open, but there’s no one there, nothing under the cloudy gray afternoon sky except…

A note.

A note on the front doorstep.

Of course.

Erik picks it up, handing it over to Christine. Ismael calls out to Philippe, Eloise, and Juliette, stopping their argument in its tracks. Christine shuts the door, opening the note with shaking hands as everyone gathers around her.

 _“Monsieur le Comte,”_ she begins, her eyes darting to Philippe before she continues on.

_“I’m sure you’ve noticed the disappearance of your sister, Raoul de Chagny. That, I’m afraid, is what happens when the wishes of a ghost are disobeyed.”_

Erik growls behind her, but Christine only has eyes for the letter. She only has ears for the sound of her own voice reading it.

_“If you wish to see her again, you will bring 50,000 francs to the alley next to the Palais Garnier tonight at 11 o’clock.”_

A memory floods Christine’s brain, a memory of a sunny day when the masked man at her elbow was threatening them. She remembers tugging Raoul into that alley and kissing her just after the first rehearsal for Don Juan, when the future she dreamt, the future she lived just a short while ago, was a mere shred of a thing. She remembers the way Raoul quirked her eyebrow, the laugh on her breath when she spoke.

_You’re very forward, Mademoiselle Daae. Did you miss me?_

_Terribly._

Christine’s heart clenches.

 _“50,000 francs,_ ” she continues, and there’s no mention of what, exactly they’ll get in return. Raoul. A hint about Raoul. _“Or you’ll never see your sister again.”_

_O.G._


	14. An Excellent Heart And An Irreproachable Conscience

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the danger mounts, Philippe finds a second chance. Christine and Eloise bond. Raoul searches for herself. And when day breaks, a theory of Ismael's proves correct when a vital clue comes to light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a warning for some violence in this chapter! Definitely not the most violent thing that's happened in the first fic or this one, but bears a warning anyway.

Christine and Philippe go alone.

Philippe wishes Christine would let him do this by himself. He wishes she were safe at home and not in the carriage headed toward the opera house.

But she won’t. She made that _very_ clear.

They can’t take Ismael or the ghost with them, because they can’t let whatever lackey of Alexandre’s they’re meeting know they’re being helped by people other than the police, and Philippe steadfastly refuses to put his other sisters in danger.

Christine didn’t really give him a choice.

So here she is sitting across from him, and Philippe’s heart is in his throat. He has to give Marcel credit for being a smooth driver. He insisted on taking them because he cares about Raoul, and Philippe’s grown fond of the man over the past year. His father always said _don’t grow fond of the servants_ , but he’s never followed that rule.

Christine’s eyes brighten the darkness of the small space, moonlight trickling in through the window and illuminating the flecks of amber in her brown irises. A simple ribbon keeps her long curls tied at the base of her neck. She couldn’t be bothered, this morning, to let Madeline do her hair, and she looks a little like the ingenue of two years ago.

Only, she isn’t.

Philippe loves Christine, but he realizes he didn’t give the ingenue she was, or the woman she is now, enough credit. When he released Raoul to go the opera that night, Juliette came to him in tears, and Juliette didn’t come to anyone in tears often. Not like that.

_We have to take care of Christine if something happens_ , she told him, even though they had already agreed. _We have to, Philippe. I promised Raoul._

And so, in the aftermath, when he thought his cherished baby sister might die, when he saw Christine in that horrible wedding dress, all he could think was _protect her_. _Protect them_. He knows that Raoul and Christine saved each other that night. That Raoul was willing to die for Christine. That Christine was willing to sacrifice her freedom for Raoul’s life. That was the story, and he knew it, but he didn’t give Christine’s resilience its due, nor Raoul’s strength. His perceived failure beat against his brain until it was all he could hear anymore.

_You didn’t stop it._

_You didn’t save her._

_You didn’t protect them._

Those words consumed him until he let Alexandre, of all people, convince him into sending a stranger to follow his sister and her wife. Raoul shouldn’t have kept the secret about seeing the opera ghost, but nothing he did was the right thing to earn her trust.

He sees, now, why she kept it from him.

Christine takes his gloved hand in her much smaller one, and he squeezes her fingers, hoping it gets the message across, because he’s not sure he can say everything he means, right now.

“We will get her back,” he finally says, reassuring himself as much as her. “I promise you.”

“Yes.” Christine nods, meeting Philippe’s eyes. “We will.”

“Because of you,” Philippe continues, needing Christine to know how brave she is. “Because you were brave enough to bring in Ismael and that…that damn opera ghost.” He cannot speak Erik’s name, not yet. “Ismael seemed to take it as a good sign that Eloise convinced Alexandre that we didn’t know it was him even if…nothing else seems good, at the moment.”

Christine gives him a sad smile, and he pulls her hand toward him, pressing a kiss to her knuckles.

They arrive at the opera. Philippe is ready and he isn’t, all at once. He _must_ be ready. He has no other choice. A sparkling sky awaits him when he steps from the carriage, those pinpricks of gilded silver lighting up the black firmament and casting the edges a kind of eerie navy blue, as if at this hour the world is a little less real. Less filled-in.

He curses the stars—the nerve of them, shining when Raoul is not safe.

He has the money in hand, gotten from his banker late in the day without question. Well, perhaps there was a question, but Pierre, bless him, didn’t ask it. He feels a bit like a fool out here with this sum, and he’s sure any police officer would have searched for another way other than handing over real money, but he doesn’t have time for that.

He has to get Raoul back, and whether he loses this money or not, he’s lucky enough to say it won’t be of devastating consequence.

Losing Raoul would be.

He helps Christine out, and they step a few feet away from the carriage. This part of Paris is usually bustling when there’s something on at the opera, but it’s empty tonight, wood planks positioned over some of the still broken windows, though half, at least at this distance and in the dark, appear to be fixed.

Philippe checks his pocket watch, shifting into the pool of moonlight at his feet so he can read the time.

10:58.

“Keep close to me,” he tells Christine. “Please.”

Christine does as he asks, though he feels the energy buzzing around her, the way her body tenses and tightens, waiting for someone to come.

At precisely eleven, someone does.

Someone comes around the corner from the opposite direction, hidden, for a moment, behind the grandeur of the opera house. A wild thought grasps him, a thought that the opera house will keep them safe because it belongs to Raoul and Christine now, doesn’t it? They banished the ghost from these halls and brought light flooding back in. But the opera house is just a building, alive as it is with music and life. It cannot spring to life and protect them.

Philippe’s breathing skids to a halt when he sees the person approaching them.

A person wearing a white mask.

But that…

The ghost is at their home. The ghost is…

Has he tricked them?

No, it can’t be that. Not that he trusts the ghost, he doesn’t, but _this_ doesn’t make sense, at least not to his head. His heart, however, roars with rage. If that man has fooled them, somehow…

He expects Christine to gasp.

She doesn’t.

He does.

Christine narrows her eyes in the dark as Philippe takes her hand, and as the man comes closer Philippe see the cheapness of the white mask, the way it covers his entire face instead of just one side. It ties behind the man’s head with a ribbon, and this is obviously not the ghost, but a trick of Alexandre’s.

Philippe would laugh if he wasn’t so afraid. Perhaps the laughter would help, but there isn’t time for it.

“Who are you?” Philippe asks.

“That is none of your business Monsieur le Comte,” the man answers, and Philippe can tell from Christine’s face that this isn’t someone she recognizes, and the cheap mask probably isn’t enough to conceal someone she is familiar with. He recognizes people he knows at masked balls, whatever other people say.

Ismael’s voice echoes inside Philippe’s head.

_Pretend you don’t know who has Raoul. The longer we do that, the longer we can keep Raoul alive. If he thinks you know, he might snap and hurt her faster to try and cover his tracks._

Philippe clasps Christine’s hand tighter. “Who sent you? Who has my sister?”

“Do you have the money?” The man doesn’t answer, and it’s clear he doesn’t intend to, but that doesn’t matter—Philippe knows who the culprit is, he just doesn’t know where he is.

Philippe shows him that he does, but he doesn’t hand it over. “What do we get in return for it?”

“Assurance that your sister will live to see another day, for now.” The stranger’s eyes glint in the dark. “She will be dead tonight if you don’t hand it over. That’s all I’m allowed to say.”

Philippe doesn’t hesitate.

The masked man takes the money, and he goes without another word. He’s nearly to the other end of the alley when Christine’s hand slips from Philippe’s.

And she starts running.

“Christine!” Philippe calls out, his words strangled by panic. “Christine, wait!”

Christine does not wait.

She keeps running.

Philippe follows.

“Where _is_ she?” Christine shouts and it’s not just grief it’s _fury_ , the sound of it knocking the breath from Philippe’s lungs.

No one in the world is better suited to love his sister than Christine Daae.

They’ve always been of the same spirit, haven’t they? Since they were children by the seaside it has always been so, and they made the choice, despite every obstacle in their way, to be there for each other fiercely. A watercolor memory seeps into his mind, a memory of arriving at the sea one day on a surprise visit. He went directly to his aunt’s house, only to be told that nine-year-old Raoul was out playing with her new friend, and her friend’s father. He made his way to the shore, stopping short at the sound of laughter.

Christine’s laughter.

It bubbled up bright into the sunny sky like a tinkle of music notes, and there next to Christine, her fair hair encrusted with sand, was Raoul, his youngest sister who was already more his child than his father’s, even if their father was not dead, yet. Gustave Daae was there too, perhaps a year or two older than Philippe himself, looking like the parental figure in a fairy story. It was something about the mischief in his smile.

The man in the mask spins around, and Christine isn’t afraid of him, even though she ought to be.

A pistol shines in the shadows. The laughter from the seashore rings in his ears.

No. _No_. He will not let anything happen to Christine. He won’t. Images mesh together in his head, and for a few terrifying seconds all he can see is Raoul in Francois’ arms. Unconscious. Bleeding. Wheezing.

Dying.

The screams from her nightmares reverberate against his skull, and those screams became _his_ nightmares, for so long. Still.

Philippe runs faster and the shot goes off and everything is chaos for a single, terrifying, stomach-lurching, moment, as he tackles Christine to the ground. Hot pain nicks across his arm, the same arm the opera ghost broke, like someone touched the skin with scorching metal.

Christine shouts. Marcel, off a short distance, calls out. Footsteps pound against the paving stones until they’re nothing but an echo in the night.

“Philippe, oh my god,” Christine says, on her knees as they untangle themselves, a smear of blood on her elbow where it must have hit the ground. “Are you all right?”

Philippe wince as he moves his arm—there’s a tear in the sleeve, and it’s bleeding a good bit. He feels the wound, and at least to his untrained eye, it’s nothing terribly serious.

“It’s just a graze, I think,” he replies, knowing how close it came to being more. “Better that than you with a shot to the chest.”

“Philippe…” Tears brim in Christine’s voice as Marcel reaches them. “I’m so sorry, I don’t know what got into me.”

“Don’t be.” Philippe takes Marcel’s offer of assistance, and they need to go, now, before anyone spots them. “I couldn’t protect you that night. This time I’m determined to.”

Christine takes Philippe’s other arm and Marcel stays close, but it’s not the pain in his arm that makes Philippe feel unsteady—it’s the adrenaline, the fear, racing through him.

“We’ll get her back,” Marcel assures them both before he shuts the door. “And don’t worry—Jules taught her well. She’ll be all right.”

Raoul is rather good at savate—and fencing, too—but if Alexandre’s drugging her…Philippe tries not to think too hard on that. He has no idea what Alexandre is doing, or what his plan is.

Except deep down in the pit of his stomach, he knows that letting Raoul go would mean risking her revealing his identity.

And as Christine presses a handkerchief against the flesh wound on Philippe’s arm to stem the bleeding, he knows he didn’t buy Raoul’s life, tonight.

He only bought time to save it. 

* * *

“Christine.” Erik sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and his forefinger. “Why would you chase after a man with a gun?”

Christine spins around from her place next to the sitting room window, one hand resting over the bandage wrapped around her elbow. “I didn’t _know_ he had a gun.”

“You should have.”

“I didn’t ask you to lecture me.”

“God,” Erik grumbles. “You sound like the de Chagny girl.”

Erik’s voice pinches there, like he can’t say Raoul’s name, though not for the previous reason of despising her.

But perhaps because he might, maybe, care.

That, however, only serves to annoy Christine more.

“Good,” she says, knowing Erik will put up with her mood, which isn’t entirely fair, but she can’t take him bossing her about right now, even if it’s well-meant.

She knows she shouldn’t have chased that man. Shouted at him. She only hopes she didn’t put Raoul in danger.

Across the sitting room, Juliette is tending to Philippe’s wound with Ismael’s help. It is, indeed, not more than a light graze, though it bled more than Christine thinks reasonable. Once they have Raoul back, she’s going to insist Philippe let Dr. Aubert see to it, even if he thinks it’s too minor for that kind of attention.

“Quit shifting, Philippe, please,” Juliette says gently, cleaning the small wound with Ismael’s direction, a roll of bandages lying nearby.

“Daroga could have been a doctor, if he liked,” Erik says, apparently choosing to disregard Christine’s earlier sharp comments. “I’m certain you needn’t worry about Monsieur le Comte’s wound.”

Erik gazes out the window into the dark midnight, one finger tracing the path of a frosted raindrop on the cold glass. He clears his throat. “I only don’t want you hurt, Christine. I feel sure that your beau would have my head if she knew anything happened to you on my watch.”

“The man had a mask,” Christine says, before she’s really ready. “The one we gave the money to, I mean. A white one.” She folds her fingers together, looking down at them before meeting Erik’s eyes. “A cheap, costume sort of thing. To scare me, I suppose.”

Erik rolls his eyes. “This man is determined to imitate me badly.” He arches one eyebrow. “Were you afraid?”

Christine shakes her head. “No. I knew it wasn’t you. I was just angry.”

“It’s probably a good sign, all things considered.”

“A good sign?”

“He wanted to fool you, at least for a moment, that perhaps it was me,” Erik clarifies. “Which probably means he doesn’t fear any of you knowing it’s him, which means your sister-in-law did what she needed to do. Daroga thinks that’s key, until we can find out what the marquis is up to. He probably has some kind of plan. He does like the drama, though his execution is lacking.”

Those words lead Christine back to an earlier train of thought, and she turns around, spotting Eloise with a cup of coffee despite the hour, sitting alone in an armchair by the fire and shooting worried glances over at Philippe, Juliette, and Ismael.

Christine makes her way over, sitting gingerly down next to Eloise, though Eloise doesn’t seem to notice.

“Eloise?” Christine asks softly.

“Oh, Christine.” Eloise jumps, the coffee in her cup sloshing dangerously close to the edge. “I didn’t see you.”

The little dreamy jolt of surprise makes Christine think of Raoul, her heart twisting until her chest aches.

“That’s all right.” Christine feels warmer toward Eloise after this morning, if still distant. She doesn’t know Eloise like she knows Juliette and Philippe, despite all the family suppers. “I was wondering, since I doubt either of us will be sleeping any time soon, if I could go with you to search again for any papers that might indicate where Alexandre’s taken Raoul. You said he wouldn’t be returning home tonight, so this could be a good time for it.”

Eloise takes a deep breath, a hint of irritation in her voice. “I looked everywhere. I don’t know where else to search.”

“I know,” Christine says, resisting the urge to snap back. They’re all tired, they’re all afraid, and as much as Christine’s world has blown apart, she knows Eloise’s has, too. “But it can’t hurt to have a second set of eyes. Maybe we’ll take Ismael with us, see if he has any ideas.” She takes Eloise’s free hand on a whim, drawing her gaze. “Please, Eloise. I need to do something, or I’ll go mad. We have to find her.”

Eloise squeezes Christine’s hand, a determined light growing in her red-rimmed eyes. “Yes. All right. I’d be glad to have you help me look.”

Christine hesitates before speaking again. “Eloise I…I’m so sorry about Alexandre. I…” her eyes flit over to Erik. “It’s different, but I know what it is to be betrayed. Lied to. And I know having children to explain it to makes it even more complicated, but your family, they love you. They’ll be here for you. And thank you, for doing what you did with Alexandre earlier. It may have saved Raoul.”

“Thank you for saying so.” A few tears spill from Eloise’s eyes, and she wipes them away immediately—a de Chagny family habit. “I appreciate you saying all of that.”

Christine tells the others the plan, brooking no argument from a worried Philippe.

“You’ve saved me once tonight,” Christine assures him, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “Ismael will be with us. Don’t worry.”

She does worry, a bit, about leaving Erik here with Juliette and Philippe, if only because she thinks she might find the husk of a former ghost upon her return, if he bothers Juliette enough. Regardless, she goes upstairs, retrieving Raoul’s favorite navy-blue tweed coat and putting it on, no matter that it’s long on her given Raoul’s height advantage. A hint of lavender fills her nose as she buttons it, the scent of Raoul’s usual perfume.

As she heads out into the night with Eloise and Ismael, she swears to God she’ll get Raoul back.

She swears it. 

* * *

Raoul wakes up alone.

Alone, and drenched in sweat.

She jolts up into the darkness, making the shackle cut into her skin, tiny droplets of blood oozing out. There’s no lamp or light in sight, so Raoul tries adjusting her eyes to the darkness, feeling for the pitcher of water on her bedside table and pouring herself a glass, gulping it down with desperation.

Her mouth is so _dry_.

Vague cramps make her stomach clench, too, and she doesn’t know if that’s because of the morphine or because all she’s had to eat since…how long has she been here?

She doesn’t know.

In any case, all she’s had is that crust of bread.

She runs a hand through her matted, messy hair, wishing she could take her corset off. She barely notices it, usually, part of her daily life as it is—even doing savate in it is no trouble—but sleeping in it is not preferable. Passing out? Whatever it is she did when Alexandre injected her. But she can’t get it off because she can’t get her half-ruined shirt off because of the shackle, and she needs as many layers as she can get in this drafty room, besides.

The cold makes her lungs ache, so she crawls back under the thin blankets, pulling them up over her head to warm herself and ease her breathing. The late autumn air is cooler than usual, creeping in through the tiny cracks every house has.

She doesn’t know where she is.

She doesn’t know what Christine or Philippe or Juliette or Eloise know. She doesn’t know how many things Alexandre is lying to her about.

She does know one thing, however.

With each passing hour, with each passing confrontation with Alexandre, she feels certain he wants to kill her. She just doesn’t understand what his plan is, or what he’s waiting for. She shuts her eyes, imagining Christine’s face. Christine will figure it out. Christine will ask Ismael what he and Andre learned from interviewing Jacques, even if the stagehand doesn’t want to admit anything happened. Something must have. Ismael is smart, and Raoul knows an obvious lie when she hears one. If they did figure it out, then are they playing Alexandre, fooling him into thinking they don’t **?** That might have been Ismael, or, God help her, Erik’s idea, if Christine went to them upon finding her gone.

Raoul thinks she must have, because if there’s anything true in this world, it’s that Christine would do anything to save her. The power of that gives her strength.

Juliette will listen to Christine.

She hopes Philippe will, too.

Her brother’s name pains her. The last words they exchanged were not angry, but they were awkward and strained, their shouting match of the evening previous still so near at hand. She hopes Philippe knows how much she loves him. She hopes that he and Juliette don’t think she’s just a…

No. She takes a deep breath. No. She will not let Alexandre’s words get in her head. She will not let her own anxiety get in her head, the anxiety that says _you are a burden to them, a disappointment._

This leads her to Eloise.

Eloise couldn’t have known. She refuses to believe her sister could have known. A year ago if someone asked her the same question she might have had a different answer, but she’s seen Eloise, these past months, changing. She’s seen Erik, the man who once tried to kill her gleefully, change.

That last part, she’s still sorting out.

For the first time since Alexandre took her, that familiar panic hits her like a punch to the gut, and she curls up tight in a ball under the blankets. Her instincts always tell her to fight it, to push it down, but this always seems to do more ill than good, so she lets it come, no matter how awful it makes her feel. How nauseated. Her heart races, and she wishes she could get warmer, she wishes she could walk around the room and move. Pacing helps, sometimes.

She shuts her eyes, envisioning Christine one afternoon several months ago, sitting beside her on their bed. Raoul had a panic and she can’t even remember why. Anything from an overcrowded room with no obvious escape route to something as innocuous as a word Erik spoke to her could cause one, and she’s still trying to make sense of what sends her back to that night, and what doesn’t. Christine asked her gently if she wanted to be touched, and when Raoul nodded Christine’s hand went to her back, moving up and down in reassurance.

_You’re safe_ , Christine said then. _I’m safe._

_I’m sorry_ , Raoul replied, the words automatic. _I’m sorry._

And then, what Christine said next, stitched in gold across Raoul’s heart.

_You never need to be sorry with me. Not about this._

The door opening interrupts her remembrance, warm air flooding in from the hallway—there must be a fire in a room nearby. She craves the heat, but she can’t go anywhere, and she won’t beg Alexandre.

“Hello, Raoul,” Alexandre says, swaggering inside and shutting the door behind him when he sees her looking out, as if he knows she senses the warmth. It closes with a slam that shakes the frame.

Raoul glares at him.

Alexandre chuckles, going over and leaning against the windowsill, his arms crossed over his chest. “You missed rather a lot, while you were sleeping.”

“You mean because you drugged me?”

“Don’t speak out of turn to me!” Alexandre shouts, his cool façade half-melting away. “You won’t like the result.”

Raoul goes quiet, knowing well the fallout of enraging a madman.

“Philippe did bring the money, all 50,000 francs of it.” Alexandre runs a hand through his usually immaculate dark hair, tousling it further. “So it would seem he still has some affection for you. A fool of a man, as usual, though it works to my advantage.”

“Who did you send to pick up the money?” Raoul asks.

Alexandre laughs again. “A police officer friend of mine. Or friend enough, once I paid him.”

Raoul gapes at him. “You said they didn’t know what you were doing.”

“I lied.” Alexandre rolls his eyes. “It’s only one man but I daresay no officer would care what happened to the deviant girl who was the scandal of all Paris. There are plenty of people who think you responsible for the deaths at the opera you know, and don’t believe you should be running it, though I suppose they’ll get their wish, now.”

Raoul grasps the blankets in her fist as Alexandre’s eyes flick toward her, a smirk sliding across his lips. She doesn’t spend much time ruminating on the attractiveness of men, but she’s never understood why many women who do—at least in the upper echelon of Parisian society—find Alexandre so alluring. He might be conventionally so, perhaps, at first glance, but there’s never been a light in his eyes, never a smile that might charm anyone. She said so once to Christine and Meg, who both agreed.

“Are you going to kill me?” Raoul asks, a question to his unspoken implication.

Alexandre clicks his tongue. “Not yet, Raoul. _Patience_. If our people in common had sorted out I was behind this I would have had to kill you earlier, to dispose of the evidence, you know. Count yourself lucky. You have some more time to pray—I don’t think the ghost granted you that, did he?”

Chills slice across Raoul’s spine, cutting down to the bone.

Sensations from that night in the lair clutch at her body. The hard metal grate as Erik slammed her up against it. The cold lake water mixing with sweat on her skin. The throbbing of her ankle and the sting of the knife. Erik’s breath in her ear. The rope cutting into her airway.

They’re more muted than before. Less immediate. But still she feels them.

She is not there. She is not _there_ she is here and Erik is not after her. He’s helping her he’s…but will he help now, when there’s a chance to be rid of her after all, without staining his own hands? Music fills her head. Erik’s music that she played on Gustave Daae’s violin.

She wrenches her mind from the past, she centers herself here and now, not with Erik, but with Alexandre.

She has to survive this.

“I think you need to eat,” Alexandre says with a mocking air. “Don’t go anywhere.”

He comes back a few minutes later with a plate containing a thin slice of bread and a few cubes of cheese. Raoul eats it because she knows he’ll drug her again, and she refuses to give into the inevitability of death, yet. She’ll fight. She’ll hope for the people she loves to find her. She believes they will.

Alexandre doesn’t drug her right away. He just sits in the armchair across the room, as far away as he can get from her, and reads. For an hour. Maybe two. Raoul has no sense of time. Footsteps echo outside in the hallway, but no one comes in. Jacques, she supposes, or the police officer, perhaps. Sunlight creeps in through the edges of the curtain-covered windows, red-orange streaks spilling down the wall.

Finally, Alexandre comes over to her, another syringe in hand. Raoul doesn’t fight him even though every bone in her body is burning to push him away, to use what she’s learned from Jules, but she knows the threats, and the risk is too great that Alexandre will make good on them.

“You’ve learned, I see,” he says, shoving her away like he did before, her arm bruised from his inexpert work. “Good.”

He gets up from the bed, straightening his jacket as he does so. Once he reaches the door, his hand on the knob, he lingers.

“What, Alexandre?” Raoul snaps, unable to help herself.

“Oh, nothing, I just forgot to tell you something.”

Raoul’s heart leaps into her throat. “Tell me what?”

“That singer of yours…” he takes his time with the words, making Raoul wait. “Well, she apparently ran at my officer acquaintance as he was leaving with the money, shouting something about _where is she_ , and you know, he said he fired his gun. He just didn’t stay around long enough to see what happened after. Shame. I do hope she wasn’t too badly hurt.”

Raoul expects vomit to crawl up her throat like it did that night of Don Juan, but it doesn’t come. Nothing comes but pure and utter shock, pounding against her chest like a hundred tons of steel.

No. No no _no_.

Not Christine. Not _Christine_. She would know if Christine were dead. She would feel it, surely, she knows she would.

“You’re lying!” she shouts, black curling in around the edges of her vision as she catches her breath. She has to breathe. Christine would want her to breathe. “You’re lying.”

Alexandre opens the door, the sound of the creaky hinge absolutely ringing in Raoul’s ears as he speaks two word that make her feel like she might well and truly die.

“Am I?”

The door shuts behind him, and Raoul takes the plate from the table, tossing it across the room. It shatters magnificently just before she bursts into great, heaving sobs.

He’s lying. He’s lying he’s lying he’s lying. He’s lied before, so why not now? He wants to torture her. That’s it. That’s all. Christine can’t be hurt. Dead. No.

She doesn’t know where she is. She doesn’t know what _day_ it is. She doesn’t know what’s real and what’s not and she just wants her life back. She wants Christine. She wants…

She wants herself back.

She can never be entirely the same, after that night in the lair, but she has gathered the pieces and put them back together, trying to convince herself that the scars she carries don’t make her weak. She was nearly there, when this happened, and she needs that girl, that woman, to get through this. She has to find her.

Christine. Christine Christine Christine.

“Please be all right,” she whispers, collapsing against the pillows. “Please, my darling.”

Raoul’s tears soak the sheets as the morphine takes hold, and when the sun rises fully in the sky, she can no longer tell the difference between reality and her nightmares. 

* * *

Christine, Eloise, and Ismael search through the night.

The servants leave them alone, and they seem loyal enough to Eloise not to question why they’re ransacking the house, though Christine wonders, fleetingly, if any of them might report back to Alexandre. It doesn’t matter, because the clue to Raoul’s whereabouts must be in this house. It has to be. Eloise hasn’t mentioned anything about Jacques to their housekeeper, given he’s her much younger brother and they don’t want to cause undue worry on her part, until this is over.

They search Eloise and Alexandre’s bedroom. The guest rooms. Claire and Jean-Luc’s rooms. The kitchen the main sitting room the parlor. They search Alexandre’s study again.

There’s nothing.

Christine excuses herself to the washroom, locking the door behind her and clapping her hand over her mouth as a muffled scream pushes past her tight lips, tears welling in her eyes.

Alexandre cannot be this smart. He isn’t Erik. He’s just a rich, angry bastard taking out his own woes on Raoul, and if they can survive Erik they can survive this. She has to figure this out. She has to. Ismael—and, admittedly, Erik—have gotten her this far, they just need this last piece to get to Raoul. To end this. She wipes her eyes, images of her old teacher potentially dozing on the de Chagny settee as Philippe contemplates whacking him over the head, almost, _almost_ making her laugh. God this is ridiculous. If someone told her this would happen mere months ago, she would have scoffed and not believed it in the least.

She hopes Philippe and Juliette are getting some sleep, even if she isn’t.

Ismael finds her in the hallway, kindly asking if she’d like him to take the carriage and run a message to to Meg, Madame Giry, Simone, and Andre—they’re trying to keep them updated through this. Meg’s last note indicated they were keeping in touch with Carlotta and Piangi as well. They have perhaps a week and change before they must begin rehearsals again without suspicion, but as much as Christine loves the opera, as much as it is a part of her, it seems so far away, right now. Faust. Garnier coming. All of it. At this juncture, Faust won’t be happening before the new year, but Faust doesn’t matter without Raoul.

She shakes her head. She can’t think it. She _won’t_ think about Raoul dying. She will get Raoul back. She will.

Marcel, ever loyal and worried for Raoul, napped on the settee in Eloise’s sitting room, waking again just a short while ago. Christine aches for Meg, but after what happened last night, she can’t bring Meg, let alone Simone, near her until this is over.

She’s hardly had time to contemplate the fact that she might have died, or at least been badly hurt, if not for Philippe.

She accepts Ismael’s offer with a grateful press to his shoulder, and he says he shouldn’t be more than an hour or so. Christine writes out a personal note to Meg and another to Simone, even though Ismael can easily pass on all the needed information. She just wants them to know she’s thinking of them. That she cares about them.

They search for three-quarters of an hour more after Ismael leaves, and Christine doesn’t even realize she’s shaking until Eloise tells her so.

“Christine,” Eloise says, her fingers curling around Christine’s wrist. “You’re shaking. I know I can’t convince you to sleep, but let’s sit. I’ll get some coffee.”

An argument burns in Christine’s chest, but she does as Eloise directs, going into the smaller parlor they’ve been taking breaks in and sitting in the armchair closest to the fire.

She hopes Raoul is warm.

She studies the room, which she’s not really been in during her infrequent visits to this house. The jewel tones of the upholstery speak to Eloise, but the sharp angles of the furniture are more Alexandre. Her eyes rove over the deep green wallpaper toward the mantle, above which is a framed family tree. Alexandre’s family tree. A desire to break the glass, to rip the paper to shreds and toss it in the fire, fills her to the brim, but she’s interrupted by Eloise, who comes in with a silver pot and two china cups.

“Here,” she says, pouring the steaming coffee into a cup. “Drink this. I don’t think you’ve eaten since yesterday afternoon, so take some bread and jam, at least.”

Eloise has an air of Juliette about her, though Eloise’s words are a bit more of a command than a suggestion.

“Thank you.”

Christine takes a sip of the coffee, and it’s very good, the sort that has a hint of chocolate in it—Raoul likes that kind best. Raoul likes any kind of chocolate, really. They drank chocolate infused wine the night of their wedding, and Christine remembers laughing and kissing it from Raoul’s lips.

“Raoul likes this kind of coffee.” Eloise echoes Christine’s thoughts, pushing the bread and jam toward her in earnest.

Silence falls as Christine eats, the strawberry jam tart on her tongue as exhaustion crashes over her.

“Christine?”

Eloise speaks again, and Christine looks up at her, resting her cup back down in its saucer.

“I…” Eloise folds her fingers together, keeping her eyes trained on them. “At first I was angry with Juliette and Philippe, with you, for thinking I could have had anything to do with this. Perhaps I still am a little, at my siblings, but…” she glances up, a sad smile on her face. “I had no right to be angry with you. Not after how our relationship started. I’ve spent so much time making it up to Raoul that I thought less of making it up to you.”

“You brought me those Swedish sweets,” Christine offers, touched at the words, and feeling a little guilty for being so frustrated with Eloise earlier. “That was very kind.”

“And you are too generous,” Eloise replies. “I apologized for what I did, with the letter. For how I treated you, but I haven’t atoned for it with you like I’ve tried to do with Raoul. I don’t know you like Juliette or Philippe do. I want to.”

“I want that too.” Christine smiles as Eloise’s clasps her hand. “I was suspicious of you at first because it was hard for me not to be. My relationship with Raoul was born in violence—we admitted our feelings after a man was killed, after all, and I…despite the peace of the past year, I’m always going to be a little more vigilant than I wish to be.”

Eloise nods. “I understand.” She squeezes Christine’s hand before letting go, running a finger around the rim of her coffee cup. “You know, I remember that day when I saw the two of you from a distance that second summer by the sea, the day that made me tear up the letter, later. And what I wouldn’t allow myself to admit, even though I saw it, was how happy my sister looked. The way she glowed, even though she was only fifteen. I saw it again when you were reunited at the opera, it just took me too long to see it for what it really was. And I’m sorry for that.”

“Thank you,” Christine whispers, her eyes drawn again to the family tree above the fireplace. “I’ve not seen anything like this before.” She points up to it, drawing Eloise’s attention. “I’m surprised Philippe doesn’t have one, given all of his _the de Chagny family has been around since_ …”

“… _the 14 th century_,” Eloise repeats, giving a little chuckle. “Yes, he does like to talk about that. Our father had one, but Philippe took it down, a few years after he passed. There were ancestors on that family tree who made their money in less than moral ways—slavery, for one— and he didn’t want to give them pride of place. We are an old noble family, but some of our forebears were the first among our class to argue for a republic. Philippe’s proud of that, even if he’s not always quite as liberal as Raoul.”

Raoul’s name hangs heavy in the air as sunlight comes in through the window, staining the floor gold.

Christine keeps looking at the family tree.

And then, she realizes something.

It’s crooked.

Not in a dramatic way, but enough that if you look for long enough, you might notice. She thinks of Alexandre and his perfect clothes, his perfect hair, his perfect everything.

He wouldn’t let his precious family tree be crooked.

“The frame is crooked,” Christine blurts out. “Eloise, is there anything behind that frame?”

“What?” Eloise asks, pulling back in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“Can we get a ladder? I want to look at the wall.”

Eloise complies, retrieving Leo, one of their servants, to bring in the ladder. He climbs up to take the frame down, handing it to Eloise carefully.

There’s a square cut in the wall, not unlike the one in the hallway at the opera where they first found the note that led them to believe the new ghost was more than one person.

There’s paper inside.

Leo hands them to Christine.

She unfolds them with shaking hands, and then, just as the sun fully rises in the sky, her heart bursts.

“Eloise,” she says. “This is a deed to a house in Sceaux. Ismael was right—Alexandre already bought it.”

Eloise takes the papers just as the door opens, and for a terrifying moment, Christine thinks it might be the villain in question. Footsteps echo in an unhurried way, and Christine’s chest tightens until Ismael rounds the corner, catching sight of her face and the deed in Eloise’s hands.

He slides his hat off, looking at Christine in question. “Is everything all right, what…”

“She’s in Sceaux,” Christine tells him, tears filling her eyes. “You were right about him already buying the house. You were right.”

Christine can’t help it. She launches herself at the only friend of the _other_ man who once threatened Raoul’s life, throwing her arms around his neck.

“Thank you,” she murmurs, her cheeks wet. They just have to get there, they just have to save Raoul before something else happens, and now there’s a path forward. “Thank you for helping us.”

“Oh my dear girl,” Ismael answers, his embrace warm and a little like a father’s. “You are so very welcome.”


	15. But The Night Was Rent Asunder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christine, Philippe, Erik, and Ismael race to save Raoul. Raoul fights to hold on. Alexandre reaches the end of his game. 
> 
> As the past echoes into the present, a ghost searches for the meaning of atonement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to the lovely 4beit on Tumblr for help with some of the medical things in this chapter! Just a warning for lots of drug-related things here, which isn't a surprise given the previous chapters, but just wanted to warn. 
> 
> Thanks to all for reading!

Erik never thought he’d see the day when he would be in the same room with Philippe de Chagny—at least, not when the Comte knew—let alone that he would _agree_ with Raoul’s brother about something.

Needless to say, these past few weeks have been full of surprises, the eldest de Chagny certainly among them. A stubborn man to be sure, he isn’t what Erik expected. He’s less self-important. Less stingy.

Erik misjudged Raoul, so it follows that he would misjudge her elder brother, as well. Perhaps he ought to recalibrate his rubric for other people, though that would involve being around other people.

Two things are decided upon: one, that the Comte and Daroga will go to Sceaux to rescue Raoul, and also that the two de Chagny sisters will remain behind. Both argued the point, Juliette because Raoul is her responsibility as much as Philippe’s, so she said, and Eloise because the perpetrator is, in fact, her husband. Philippe quieted them both by insisting that he could not bear to see his other sisters in peril when one was in such grave danger, not to mention that they both have children who should not be deprived of their mothers should the worst happen. Especially when two of them will already, in some way or the other, lose their father.

The point being debated is whether or not Christine will accompany Philippe and Ismael.

No one has yet asked Erik if he will go. It would not be absurd to leave him behind, given he was not so long ago nearly responsible for murdering Raoul himself. This is, however, his chance, isn’t it? His chance to atone. But he’s done that already, surely. He bought them time at the opera house. He’s assisted with the mystery. What is enough for kidnapping? Assault? Manipulation and abuse? Attempted murder?

What is enough for the grief he almost left Christine with?

What is enough for for every single thing thing he did to Raoul?

He shakes his head, focusing back on the argument at hand. This isn’t about Raoul. It’s about Christine. It always has been.

“I agree with the Comte,” Erik says. “It is not safe for you to go, Christine.”

“Now wait just…” Philippe begins, ready to fight until he processes what Erik just said. He furrows his brow, clearing his throat. “Yes. Thank you, monsieur.”

Christine clenches her fists at her side, Juliette’s hand squeezing her shoulder in support. “Raoul is my wife. She came for me. I deserve the chance to come for her, too. I _am_ coming. We don’t have time to waste arguing about this, and none of you have the right to tell me no. If I were a man this wouldn’t even be a point of debate.”

“She’s right,” Juliette adds. “It’s bad enough that Eloise and I must stay here. Christine should go.”

“Juliette,” Philippe grumbles, falling silent at a single look from his sister.

“I will make sure she’s safe,” Ismael adds.

“Daroga,” Erik growls in complaint, but Ismael only spares him a glance that says he is not the least afraid.

“Thank you, Ismael,” Christine answers, reaching back for Juliette’s hand. “I will not be rash like I was last night, I promise. I will listen. I know I’m not trained to shoot or anything like that, but I’m the one who sorted out where Alexandre was keeping the papers and I…” tears fill her eyes, and she doesn’t wipe them away. “Raoul is my world. I can help. I’m determined to help.”

Philippe finally relents, and that’s when, much to Erik’s chagrin, the attention falls on him.

Christine’s attention, in particular.

“Well,” she says, pulling what he remembers as Raoul’s tweed coat tighter around her shoulders as she faces him, having not taken it off when she and Eloise rushed in the door. “Are you coming?”

“Me?”

“You,” Christine echoes, a touch softer than before. “I’m certain we could use your help.”

Erik stalls. He stalls because half of him wants to do this, half of him wants to help Raoul de Chagny of all people in the damned world, and the other half, the half that lurked beneath the opera, tells him that if Raoul were gone, perhaps Christine would want him in the same way he has always wanted her.

Though, over the past few days, he has felt more like the teacher, the mentor, she wished he was, rather than a thwarted suitor. If you’d told him he would forget, at least for a time, his romantic feelings toward Christine Daae, his broken black heart would have laughed. Love can morph, he supposes, but in some way, shape, or form, part of his heart will always be Christine’s. He only let her go that night because he loved her, even if she could easily be forgiven for not interpreting it that way, after all he put her through.

He looks at Philippe. “I’m not sure Monsieur le Comte would welcome me.”

Philippe runs his hand over his face, shaking his head as if he can’t believe his own words. “I agree with Christine. Your…skill set would be useful.”

He doesn’t say what it would be useful for, exactly, but Erik thinks he won’t in front of Eloise, because Erik’s best skill set involves killing, and the Comte clearly thinks killing, or at the least maiming the marquis, might be inevitable.

Erik hasn’t put his hands to anyone since Raoul.

He doesn’t know what we’ll happen if he does, even for a worthy purpose.

He doesn’t know who he’ll become.

Christine meets his eye, and she’s not begging him, not like that night in the lair, but she is asking something of him like she did when she showed up at Ismael’s flat two days ago, and what he does now, how he answers, will determine everything going forward. It will determine whether or not Christine forgives him for all the wrongs he’s done her, the thing he’s sought since a few weeks after Don Juan.

It was part of why he agreed to help hunt down this new ghost in the first place. There was another reason, too. A reason he didn’t want to admit to himself at first, an intrigue he couldn’t deny.

Raoul, and her insistence that he was going to help them.

Blue is the hottest color in a candle flame, and there was fire in the girl’s eyes that night. She was afraid of him, still, but she was brave despite it.

Raoul de Chagny is not what he expected. She never was.

She is a good person, and he tried to destroy her.

He owes Christine his atonement.

And he owes Raoul, too.

“All right,” he mumbles, though he usually finds mumbling beneath his dignity. “I will go with you.”

Something happens, then. Something Erik dreamt of but never expected.

Christine embraces him.

Memories of that night wash over him. Her lips against his, unsure at first and then harder, desperate, trying to convince him. Pleading with him. Her arms went around him next, compassion in her touch, understanding, despite all he had done and was doing to her at that exact second. Any physical touch between them was limited, before that moment, and always in his control. Until he brought her down to the lair, it was only his voice. Don Juan was the pinnacle of it all, and he touched her, violated her, in ways he will never forgive himself for.

And yet she embraced him. Felt for him.

This is rather different. This isn’t fear. It isn’t pleading. It isn’t desperation. It’s gratitude, and he wants to say that he does not deserve such a thing, that he is grateful to _her_ for giving him back his humanity when he thought it long gone. There isn’t time for him to say that. There’s only time for him to return it quickly, for her to say _thank you_ , and it’s over as quick as it began. She does not linger in the embrace, or even near him, stepping away to gather whatever she needs for the journey before they go.

Philippe retrieves two pistols—Ismael already has his own—and though he does not give the second to Erik, Erik assumes it must be for him. He doesn’t blame the Comte for holding off giving it to him. He would, too.

“Do not let anyone one in once Francois arrives with the children. I’ve summoned Felix, as well,” Philippe says, referring to, apparently, Juliette’s husband as well as a friend of his own, who are coming to keep watch over the house. “Unless it is the Girys or Monsieur Andre. Are you listening, Juliette? I need you safe.”

“I’m listening perfectly well.” Juliette kisses her brother’s cheek, a touch of exasperation in her voice at the lecture. “We’ll be careful. Bring Raoul back to us. Please. Tell her I love her.”

“I will.” Philippe tugs his sister to him, and Erik thinks that they are like Raoul’s parents, as well as siblings.

Eloise approaches the Comte, and Philippe takes both of her hands in his. She’s shaking, and Erik can imagine why.

“Be careful, won’t you?” she whispers. “Say you will, Philippe.”

“I will.” Philippe kisses Eloise’s forehead, softer with her than he’s been since Erik arrived, their past bickering forgotten. “I’m so sorry, Eloise. I am.”

Eloise nods, straightening her spine. “Tell Alexandre…” she sniffs, keeping her tears back. “Tell him that the money didn’t matter. That our marriage mattered. That our children matter. And tell him…” she pauses here, a gleam in her eyes. “Get Raoul back.”

Whatever thousand things she must want to say don’t come. Juliette takes Eloise into her arms, and the rest of them take what they need and go. Erik finds himself in a carriage next to Ismael, with Christine and the Comte across from him.

He finds himself on his way to save Raoul de Chagny’s life. 

* * *

Raoul doesn’t wake on her own.

A pair of rough hands shakes her and shakes her and _shakes_ her, but her eyelids are heavy. Stuck together. Can she even open her eyes?

“Wake up, dammit!” someone shouts.

Her tongue sits thick and dry in her mouth. Grogginess sweeps across her, and when she finally opens her eyes, nausea does, too.

Alexandre’s faces hovers above her own, and he gives her one more shove.

“Time to get up,” he says, sickly sweet. “We have somewhere to go.”

“Go?”

“Yes, I said _go_ , are you an idiot?” Alexandre pulls a key out of his pocket. “I have to undo this shackle, but if you make one wrong move, you will regret it. I promise you that.”

Raoul stays still as a relentless late autumn rain hits the windows. She’s so cold and her chest hurts. Her breathing is shallower than before, isn’t it? She doesn’t know if it’s her sometimes pesky lungs in this drafty room or if it’s the drugs, but she’s not making it up, she does know that. The shackle comes undone, and Alexandre tugs Raoul up by her half-ruined shirt.

That’s when she kicks him.

The impact is not as powerful with just her bare foot, but she hears Jules’ voice in her head telling her to try anyway, that any strike against an opponent attempting harm is usually better than nothing. She hits her target, her heel slamming right into Alexandre’s stomach. Her feet threaten to give out from under her—she’s weak from the exhaustion and the hunger and the drugs. Alexandre falls, perhaps from both the hit and the sheer force of his surprise. Raoul makes for the door, but as soon as she wrenches it open Alexandre’s behind her, wrapping one arm around her waist and tugging her backward. She kicks his knee, and he grunts in pain, but she’s shaking all over, and he’s able to keep his grasp. He holds her close against him, and she thrashes until his other hand wraps around her throat, squeezing in threat.

“A valiant effort.” Alexandre’s winded from the effort, and that gives Raoul a primal sort of satisfaction. “But a failure, much like everything else about you.”

Raoul grits her teeth. “I am not a failure.”

“Eloise has told me about your anxieties, your little…oh what did she call them? Attacks of nerves, I think. Soldier’s heart without ever being a soldier.” He laughs in her ear, and she swears she’s going to vomit. “You think you’re so special, running around learning Savate like some common street urchin. But really you’re just weak. Worthless. Don’t worry—you’ll be joining your little Swedish singer soon.”

Something explodes in the pit of Raoul’s stomach. She’s heard that refrain a thousand times in her own head since the night of Don Juan.

_You’re weak._

Hearing the words come from Alexandre’s mouth, with that disdain, makes her realize she never was. Hurting, healing, surviving until you can live, is not the same as being weak, and there was some point in the past year, despite the lingering episodes of panic, where she was well and truly alive, and not half-caught in a nightmare. If she looked at herself from the outside, she would say her resilience was astonishing—she went back to the opera, she made it her own, she made a life with Christine.

Christine.

Christine is not dead. She refuses to believe Christine is dead.

The girl Raoul was, the woman she is, the person she longed for last night as she cried herself to sleep, burns with life against her chest. She’s not gone at all. Perhaps she never was. Raoul’s found pieces of her ever since that night in the lair, mirrored by the world in front of her. In Juliette’s indulgent smile. In the way Philippe laughed, tousling her hair like he did when she was a little girl. While she sparred with Jules, determined to learn how to protect herself, adapting to the situation at hand. Between the pages of her favorite books as Christine read them aloud at night, her fingers softly stroking Raoul’s hair.

What happened to her, what Erik did, changed her.

It did not destroy her.

“I’m not weak,” Raoul growls, needing to say the words aloud. “I’m not worthless.”

Alexandre holds her tighter to him, and she’s shaking too hard, her limbs feel too heavy, to do anything about it. “Of course you are. You’ve smeared your family’s name and mine too, and you’re going to pay for it now.” Rage drops heavy on his words, splattering across each syllable. “Do you know why I drugged you, Raoul?”

“To keep me docile, I assume?”

She winces when Alexandre moves his hand from around her neck, tugging hard on her hair instead.

“Because no one will be surprised to find Raoul de Chagny, the great embarrassment of her family, the stupid, strange girl making up ghost stories, dead of a morphine overdose, now will they?” Alexandre’s voice goes low. “ _She just couldn’t take the shame_ , they’ll say. _She went mad_ , they’ll whisper. They’ll never know it was me, when they find your body in the opera house.”

Raoul stiffens visibly.

Her bones turn liquid.

“Yes that’s right.” Alexandre’s arm goes tighter around her waist, and he pulls on her hair again, arching her neck back. “And when you’re gone, Philippe will change his will, give what he would have given to you to his living sisters, and their children. And who’s to say…” Alexandre lingers here, teasing her. Torturing her. “…that Philippe won’t die of a heart attack, or some such, in a year or so? The stress, you know, and a family history, with your father. Just dead one day. Nothing to be done.”

“You stay away from Philippe,” Raoul hisses. “Don’t you touch him.”

Alexandre starts dragging her toward the door. “Philippe has never appreciated the best of his sisters, and now Eloise will get what she deserves. I just need to dispose of the sister who was taking up so much of his attention.”

Raoul wants to say _she deserved better than for you to waste her money_ , but that will only make Alexandre kill her faster. She has to survive. She has to give her family time. She has to give Ismael time, because he must surely be helping. She has to give…

She doesn’t think Erik’s name. He’s changed. She’s seen it for herself.

The question remains—has he changed enough to offer his help to save her life?

How strange, to be thinking of the opera ghost now.

Alexandre throws the door open, and just before he shoves her into the hallway, Raoul jiggles her wrist, making the golden bracelet Christine gave her slide off onto the floor. If she makes her way here, if she sees it, she’ll know. Alexandre doesn’t notice, and Jacques is waiting in the hallway with rope. They press her to the floor, binding her ankles and her wrists tight. A needle goes into her arm next, though the dose appears less than before, from the glance she gets at the syringe.

“Thank you, Jacques,” Alexandre says, wiping his hands on his trousers. “You’ve been of great help to me.”

Jacques narrows his eyes, perhaps because he’s never heard Alexandre express gratitude. In fact, Raoul’s never seen her brother-in-law to do so any servant or person he considers beneath him.

And he definitely considers Jacques beneath him. 

“You’re welcome, monsieur,” Jacques replies uneasily.

Alexandre reaches into his coat for something and is that….

Raoul’s stomach clenches again.

A gun.

Alexandre cocks it. He points it at his accomplice.

Jacques doesn’t even have a chance to protest, to plead, before the shot goes off. The stagehand crashes to the floor, blood gushing ruby red from a wound in his chest. If he’s not dead already, he will be soon.

Raoul’s fairly sure there’s a scream ripping from her throat, but cloth being shoved into her mouth chokes back the sound, and then Alexandre’s throwing her over his shoulder and she can’t kick him she can’t hit him, she can’t do _anything_ as he tosses her onto the floor of the carriage, backhanding her hard across the face. Blood trickles warm from the small wound, tracing a path down her cheek.

She falls into a kind of twilight despite the sun glimmering through the window, caught between sleeping and wakefulness. Night and day. Life and death.

Alexandre says something to his apparently unconcerned driver—she doesn’t know what—and then they’re off, the wheels rumbling over the paving stones and no one outside the wiser to the young woman trapped inside.

As they go back to the place where this all started, one coherent thought forms in Raoul’s mind.

Christine. 

* * *

Christine almost leaps from the carriage when they arrive at the house in Sceaux.

She decides not to, because she promised she would listen, that she wouldn’t rush in and put herself in danger. Blood pulses in her veins. Air rushes into her lungs. She’s perhaps never felt as conscious of her own life than right now, determined as she is to keep Raoul breathing. That’s all she needs. Everything else can be figured out.

Raoul is alive. She would know if Raoul was dead. She would know it.

She steps down from the carriage with her umbrella in hand, the rain beating down hard, harder than in Paris proper. A rare crack of autumn thunder slams against her ears, and the four of them rush up to the covered front porch of the home that must be Alexandre’s, if the papers were right.

“The windows are all dark,” Erik says, wringing out the soaked bottom of his black cloak, pulling his hat down further in an attempt to obscure his mask. “I’m not sure anyone’s here.”

“They must be.” Christine’s voice cracks, but she swallows it back. “The papers said this address.”

“He might not want anyone to think he’s home,” Ismael replies. “We need to get inside, regardless.”

Philippe, apparently in agreement, tries the door. “Locked.”

Gesturing Philippe aside, Erik steps in front of the door, taking a knife out of his pocket. He slides it in the lock, pressing his ear closer. It takes a few minutes, but soon enough he has it undone.

“Wait,” Philippe says before Erik goes inside, taking the spare pistol off his belt. “Here.”

Erik stares at the weapon. “You trust me with this?”

“With this?” Philippe grumbles. “Yes. You more generally? No.”

No more words pass between them as Erik accepts the gun, and the three men sandwich Christine between them, her short boot heels echoing into the quiet when she steps over the threshold. A shiver shoots up her spine, a gasp sharp in her throat, when she lays eyes on what’s just inside the entrance hall.

A body.

An unmoving, blood-spattered body.

For a terrible, earth-shattering moment, the fair hair makes her think it’s Raoul, but when she steps closer, the person’s identity clarifies.

Jacques.

Given that that wound is in his chest, Christine makes the assumption that he didn’t shoot himself.

“Good God!” Philippe shouts, covering his mouth with one hand and reaching for Christine with the other. “Raoul!” he calls out! “Raoul are you here?”

“Please don’t shout, Monsieur le Comte,” Ismael says, chiding Philippe gently. “If they are here we must be careful. If your brother-in-law has stooped to shooting his accomplice he’ll no doubt be further eager to pull the trigger again.”

Philippe nods, clasping Christine’s hand tighter, a visible vein pulsing in his forehead.

“Perhaps you ought to wait with Marcel by the carriage,” he begins. “You shouldn’t have to see this.”

“No.” Christine stands firm. Vomit creeps up her throat, leaving a burn behind. “I’m staying, Philippe. If she’s here, I’ll find her.”

“The marquis clearly didn’t think we’d find this place, or that we thought him responsible at all,” Erik says, crouching down next to Jacques’ unmoving form and shooting an approving glance up at Ismael. “You were right to take that tack, Daroga.” He presses two fingers against Jacques’ neck. “He’s dead, though from the warmth of the body I’d say very recently so. Perhaps not even a half hour.”

“Why would he kill the man who helped him?” Christine asks, a nervous energy buzzing through her. They have to find Raoul. They have to find her before she meets this same fate. “I don’t understand.”

Erik shrugs. “He outlived his usefulness, I suppose. It’s messier than I thought he might be, and he didn’t dispose of the body right away. He’s not an experienced criminal, and he’s devolving, it would seem.”

“We need to search the house.” Ismael grimaces, an urgency in his voice Christine hasn’t heard before, like he’s thinking something and not saying it, but there isn’t time to press.

Ismael and Erik look upstairs, while Christine and Philippe take the lower floor. There’s nothing, at first, no sign of life. Not until Christine spots an open door down a narrow hallway—toward what must be a small servant’s quarters—drawn toward it for reasons she can’t explain. She steps inside with Philippe behind her, and the first thing she sees is a golden bracelet on the floor.

The bracelet she gave Raoul.

Her chest heaves and her breath catches, lightning flashing through the thin curtains. Christine picks the bracelet up off the floor, and it feels heavy in her hand. There’s a fireplace at the far end of this room, but there’s no sign that it’s been lit anytime recently. Raoul must have been so cold in here.

“Dots of blood on the sheets.” Tears cut Philippe’s voice in half. “There’s a shackle here and…” he leans down, inspecting the table beside the bed. “…a Morphine kit. He’s been drugging her.”

Christine holds the bracelet to her chest, like the piece of jewelry might draw Raoul here. “She’s alive. He took her somewhere, he must have, or we would have found her here with Jacques.” She meets Philippe’s eyes. “But where? Why would he bring her here and then leave, why would he…”

Footsteps cut her off. Ismael and Erik come into the room, the latter holding something in his hand.

A bouquet of red roses.

Dead ones.

“We found these upstairs, along with ink and envelopes,” Erik says, surveying the room before his eyes land on the Morphine kit. “Drugs, I see. I think he was holding her here, before his final move.” He pauses, glancing at the roses again. “I think he took her to the opera.”

“The opera?” Philippe questions. “Why? Why would he do that?”

The words ring strange and distant in Christine’s ears, and she can’t stop staring at the dead roses in Erik’s hand.

One bloom falls to the floor.

More fall in her memory.

That first night. That first note. Dead rose petals floating to the ground outside the opera house front door as she stood with Raoul in the pool of light from the streetlamp.

“Your sister said the marquis lost some kind of investment just after everything at the opera,” Erik continues. “I suspect it had something to do with what happened there, and I suspect he did lose money. I suspect he blames Raoul for that. Like I blamed Raoul.” He pauses, his hand shaking around the roses. “He was pretending to be me, and now he wants to succeed where I failed.”

“If I had to venture a guess,” Ismael adds, picking up the Morphine kit. “I think he wants to overdose her. Make it look like she committed suicide. After everything that happened at the opera, it would pass that she would go there to do it.”

“Jacques and poor Simone were using the hallway behind my old dressing room to pass notes,” Christine whispers. “I don’t know if they would have chosen that themselves. We have to go. We have to go now.”

Philippe and Ismael, agreeing with this argument, run out ahead of her, but Erik stands frozen on the spot, still holding the roses in his hand.

“Erik?” Christine asks.

“I saw her that first night,” he says softly, almost, dare she say it, fondly. “With the rose in her hand. How she gave it to you. I hated her, even if I didn’t know why, then.” He studies the roses. “I’m so sorry. She…she didn’t deserve that from me. Any of it. You didn’t deserve it. I was your teacher and I should have been sharing in your joy, but I was too selfish. I was always too selfish. I spent so much of the past year thinking that I should only be sorry for what I did to you, but I should be sorry for what I did to her, too.”

His expression hardens. He tosses the lifeless flowers across the room, the brittle petals burned brown and curling at the edges. They hit the floor with a crisp rage, sliding across the wood toward the empty fireplace.

“We’d best go.”

He doesn’t really stop to let her reply, and there among the anger, Christine still sees the fear. She’s not entirely sure what he’s afraid of, but she doesn’t have time to contemplate it, she only takes Erik’s hand when he offers it. They run out into the rain, joining Ismael and Philippe in the carriage just as the storm lets up.

Marcel sets off, and as they head toward the place where this began, she repeats two things over and over again inside her head, hoping her beloved will hear her.

_Stay alive._

_I’m coming._

* * *

Raoul tries to scream when Alexandre yanks her out of the carriage in the narrow alleyway next to the opera, but his hand clamps tight over her mouth, stifling any noise she might make.

He takes her to Christine’s old dressing room.

Or rather, he drags her.

He undoes the ropes binding her ankles once they’re inside, forcing her to walk on wobbly legs. She couldn’t kick him if she wanted to—and she does—because she would just crash to the ground. The entrance hall lays dark, no sun streaming in from the overcast sky beyond the windows. It looks haunted in this light, dust clinging to the chandelier and the lamps, left mostly untouched for the past few weeks in all the chaos.

He shoves her inside the old dressing room, and she does fall to the carpet, perhaps a foot away from where her old blood stain rests, never quite scrubbed out, and why would it be? They abandoned this room. Locked it up. She wants to air it out now. Redo it and let the good memories win over the bad ones.

This is the place where she reunited with Christine after all, and that is worth everything.

If she gets out of this, she swears she will fix this room, and not be afraid of it anymore. She will treasure it.

Alexandre ties the ropes around her knees and ankles this time, her wrists still bound. The workers fixing the windows aren’t here today, the glass replaced like new faster than they expected.

“Now,” Alexandre says, pulling the Morphine kit out of his pocket. “Take a moment to get right with God, Raoul. Although, I’m not sure how you ever could. Still, you might as well try.”

“I believe the commandment is _thou shalt not kill_ , if I’m remembering my catechism correctly,” Raoul spits, because truly, she has nothing to lose. He has nothing to threaten her with, at this point. “I’m not the one committing murder.”

“Raoul.” Alexandre clicks his tongue, flicking the syringe in his hand. “You should know the rules don’t apply to men like me. If a priest were to say which of the two of us was more morally upright, I’m sure they would choose me.”

Raoul personally thinks that God might not prefer men like Alexandre as much as they believe. She’s about to say so, until she catches Alexandre gazing at the syringe. He opens the tin kit back up again, rifling around in his pocket without grace. He doesn’t say anything, he only crouches down next to her, plunging the needle into her arm with less finesse than usual, stepping across the room and muttering under his breath.

He waits.

Five minutes.

Ten minutes.

Fifteen minutes.

Panic floods Raoul’s veins as sure as the morphine, and the room itself turns darker around her, the peeling wallpaper getting closer and closer and closer. A musty scent stings her nose, and she glances at the vanity where, to this day, a bouquet of red roses rests in a vase.

The ones she brought Christine the night of Don Juan, when another man blamed her. When another man tried to kill her.

The roses are long dead, but they come alive the longer Raoul looks at them, red seeping back into the petals as a shimmering, ghostly version of Christine appears in her memory. She sees herself, kneeling in front of the chair and telling Christine they would make it.

She has to make it, she has to…

Her limbs turn heavier.

Her mouth gets drier.

Her breaths turn shallow again, cold seeping into her fingers and toes.

Is this it? Is this really it? Can she buy time? She doesn’t even know if there _is_ time, she doesn’t know if anyone will look here but something deep inside her tells her to hold on. But what if Alexandre hurts them? What if…

Words ring in her head, and they ring loud in Christine’s voice, Christine, who is not dead. She cannot be dead.

_You are worth the risk._

Death was not her objective that night in Erik’s lair, but she also did not believe herself worth Christine’s sacrifice. Learning to let Christine protect her in return meant Raoul letting down a wall she didn’t even know was there, at first. She had to teach herself not to toss her own life and well-being out, that it wasn’t what Christine wanted at all. She learned that the two of them protecting each other in tandem was the most powerful thing in the world. It’s still hard, some days, because all she wants is to keep Christine safe, to protect her, to make her happy, but Christine wants that for her, too.

Tears prick her eyes, and she won’t beg Alexandre, but she will summon the name of the one person who might give her a chance.

Eloise.

“My sister wouldn’t want this.” Slightly slurred words pour from her mouth, but they’re sure. Certain. “She wouldn’t, Alexandre.”

Alexandre whips around from his place standing a few feet away, annoyed, apparently that she is not dead yet. “Don’t talk about Eloise. You don’t know what she wants.”

“I didn’t, for a long time.” Raoul takes a deep breath, feeling lightheaded, and so heavy she might sink through the floor. “But now I like to think I do. If she finds out you did this…”

Alexandre’s boot heel slams against Raoul’s rib cage, and if not for her corset she’s sure it would have broken the skin. She cries out even if she doesn’t want to. He probably bruised a rib, at the least.

“She won’t ever find out, because you’ll be dead.” Alexandre’s words are sparks of rage. “You’ll be nothing more than a drug-addicted footnote in her memory. I’ve made sure of it.”

“That’s not true.” Pain pulsates across Raoul’s side as she speaks, unconsciousness pulling at her, but she has to stay awake, she has to stay awake. “No one who knows me will think I killed myself in this dressing room, Alexandre. They’ll figure it out, and then you’ll lose her.”

A shout of fury echoes through the room as Alexandre stalks over to the old chaise lounge, retrieving a throw pillow before getting down on his knees next to Raoul.

“I’ve had enough of your talk,” he hisses. “And I don’t have time to wait for you to die.”

Before she can protest, before she can think further, Alexandre pushes the pillow down hard over her mouth and nose. She tries to scrabble at it with her fingers but her wrists are bound too tight and her legs are tied and she tries to kick and she can’t breathe she can’t _breathe_. She thrashes and thrashes and finally manages to throw him loose enough to get a gulp of air, but then he smacks the the back of her head against the floor and she’s dizzy and she’s cold and everything is blurry and there are footsteps echoing inside her mind, the footsteps she longs to hear but it’s the drugs and the lack of oxygen, it must be. There’s no one here. No one but the two of them.

Images drip into her memory like watercolor paint, pale and wispy and fragile. Christine coming down the stairs in that golden dress the day of their wedding. Philippe sitting beside her bed when she was ill, whispering sweet things when he thought she was asleep. Juliette laughing as Raoul read dramatically to the children. Playing the song she wrote for Christine on the violin, Meg singing beside her. Eloise sitting with her by the fire just days ago.

Christine again. Christine and her father by the sea, the wind turning all their cheeks pink. The attic. A picnic. Gustave’s awed voice telling them stories about the angel of music as he played the violin.

The door flies open, slamming against the wall.

Raoul screams against the fabric of the pillow.

Then the pillow is gone. She gulps in air, and Alexandre hauls her up by her shirt, ripping it again in the process.

“The infamous opera ghost, I assume?” Alexandre says, his voice trembling just a little. “Fancy meeting you here.”

Raoul’s vision clears, and it _is_ Erik, standing in the doorway, with Ismael at his side.

Erik has come to save her. An odd, out of place giddiness fill her up, and she’s not entirely sure she hasn’t lost her mind.

_Erik._

But where is…

“Christine, wait!”

Philippe’s voice. _Philippe’s_ voice calling out Christine’s name.

They’re here. Philippe and Christine. Christine and Philippe.

Christine all but runs into Erik’s back, Philippe at her heels.

“Raoul!” Christine calls out, though Erik keeps her firmly behind him.

Alexandre pulls Raoul tight against him, retrieving a knife from his pocket and placing it against her neck, his threat ringing through the room.

“If one of you makes a move toward me, I’ll slit her throat.”

* * *

The Comte, inadvisably, speaks.

Erik bites back a sigh.

“Let her go, Alexandre. Right now.”

“Good to see you too, Philippe.”

The marquis’ eye twitches. It’s subtle, but Erik is adept at details. The fool’s fingers shake around the handle of the knife, and it’s clear that he well and truly didn’t think anyone would sort out it was him.

“It’s too late to save her,” the marquis says. “She has too much Morphine in her system. I made sure of it.”

“That’s not…” Raoul tries, but the marquis pushes the knife against her neck, cutting her off.

Behind him, Christine tries to step up, but Erik gestures her back, Ismael whispering something in her ear. Erik studies Raoul—she’s shivering and sweating and her breathing is depressed, which is surely a sign of too much Morphine in her blood, but it may not be too late to save her. There’s a cut on her cheek too, and a boot-shaped stain on her shirt, like someone kicked her.

Besides, if it was entirely too late, Raoul would likely be unconscious, and the marquis wouldn’t be threatening to slice her throat open.

How this will end, Erik doesn’t know, but he looks at the marquis, and he sees himself. Not entirely, of course, there are vast differences between them, the marquis’ financial and physical privilege being foremost among them. He has not had to live on society’s edges, hiding his face, but Erik sees the rage in his eyes. The hatred for Raoul, the way he blames her for his unhappiness. Erik felt those things deep down to the marrow of his bones. He thought killing Raoul would rid him of his problems. That it would win him Christine even if all it did was push her away.

There _is_ the trouble that the marquis cares for absolutely no one in this room. Even during his darkest moments, when he could and did hurt Christine, Erik cared about her, and that was his vulnerability. That was what made him come undone.

In retrospect, perhaps they should have brought Eloise with them, but it’s too late for that now, and perhaps it’s giving this man too much credit. Erik extorted money, but the money was not the point of it all.

“She hasn’t done anything to you,” Christine says, apparently tired of being kept back. “And Eloise doesn’t want this, Alexandre. She told us as much. She helped us.”

“You lying whore!” The room shudders with the marquis’ fury. “Don’t you lie to me. Don’t you dare.”

Raoul struggles against his grip, but this only causes the knife to very lightly nick her neck, and Philippe holds out a hand, bidding her still.

“Christine is telling the truth, Alexandre. Eloise told me to tell you that the money didn’t matter.” The Comte speaks again, trying a different tack. “That only your marriage mattered. The children. Let Raoul go.”

“You let a foreigner and a criminal tell you what to do, Philippe?” the marquis asks. “How far you’ve fallen, though I shouldn’t be surprised.”

He smirks, and there’s madness in it. Hatred. Erik knows that smirk. He knows it, and he hates himself for knowing it. He is not this pompous, slimy aristocrat, and he is, all at once.

“I shouldn’t be surprised because you let this harlot,” the marquis continues, whispering the word close in Raoul’s ear, making her flinch. “…do whatever she wishes, no matter the shame it brought to your name.”

Old words, terrible words, echo in Erik’s memory. Words he spoke when it was him holding a knife to the girl’s neck.

_Good enough for a harlot._

“Dammit let my sister go, Alexandre!” The Comte shouts. “She hasn’t done anything to warrant this from you.”

“Yes she has! I lost money because of her! Connections. You think you slid out of it like you always do, but people talk, Philippe. They talk about you, and they talk about me, in turn.”

“I don’t care what people say!” The Comte shoots back, and Erik thinks this is no small thing for a man of his position to say. “You not taking care of your finances is not Raoul’s fault. It’s yours. We would have helped you.”

“I don’t need your pity,” the Marquis seethes. “If you don’t care, if her behavior doesn’t bother you, then why did you let me talk you into sending that investigator after her, hmm? Explain that.”

“I was worried she was in danger!” The Comte’s voice _explodes_. “And believe you me, I will not allow anyone to ever come between Raoul and myself again. Be sure of that. I should have listened to her. To Christine. Not to you. If not for your children, I would regret Eloise every marrying you. How dare you do this to her? Break her heart this way?”

Erik wants to tell the Comte to stop shouting, but he’s not sure it would do any good, and perhaps he thinks the mention of his wife and children will soften Alexandre’s rage.

They have to get Raoul away from her errant brother-in-law, or all of this will have been for nothing.

The Marquis gestures with his knife. “Back up. All of you. Away from the door.”

Ismael, clear-headed as ever, directs them all toward the chaise lounge, but Christine, Erik notices, isn’t looking at Alexandre.

She’s looking at Raoul.

And Raoul is looking back.

Christine inclines her head. Just once.

Raoul, rather than holding herself tensely, drops heavy against Alexandre’s grasp while the knife is away from her neck, making him struggle to keep hold. In his mind she might just be falling unconscious, but Erik knows she’s doing it on purpose. He takes Christine and Raoul’s lead, rushing at the Marquis, who jolts in terror. The knife swipes against Raoul’s shoulder as he shoves her away, a muffled cry piercing the air. Christine, persistent, courageous Christine dives to the floor, catching Raoul awkwardly in her arms before she hits the carpet.

The Marquis runs.

Philippe starts to run after him.

“No!” Erik calls out to him. “Stay here.” He grabs Philippe’s sleeve. “Stay here,” he repeats. “You sister needs you.”

Philippe tears himself out of Erik’s grasp. “I need to catch that demon who hurt her.”

“And I know this opera house. You don’t.”

Erik doesn’t say that he knows how to kill if he has to, though the Comte surely already knows that.

Philippe relents, and Ismael runs out the door with Erik, down the narrow hallway leading toward the stage.

“Go check the seats and the front hall,” Erik tells him, knowing that’s not where the Marquis went, feeling certain of it, but he wants Ismael safe, after everything his friend has done for him.

He has to do this part alone.

Ismael doesn’t argue, dashing off in the opposite direction.

Quiet falls as Erik steps onto the stage. Dark hangs around him, one lone gas lamp flickering off to the side. The lush red and gold curtains flutter as he brushes up against them, the velvet soft against his hand.

The Marquis has worn a mask from the start, attempted to be a ghost when he never was one. When he knows nothing about the life of a specter. Erik knows something about lying. About playing games. He pretended to be something he wasn’t to Christine for years. But once that secret was revealed, he was no longer pretending. He was clear about who he was and what he wanted.

This man is a coward. And cowards hide.

Erik waits for any tiny sound. A creak. A footstep.

It gives him time.

He pushes the curtain aside for a slip of a moment, gazing out at the new chandelier in the dark, the replacement for the one he sent crashing to the stage.

What monster will emerge if he’s forced to kill the Marquis? This opera house was his home, for a time. His domain. His playground. He wrote some of his best music within these walls, but he was also his worst self. Manipulative. Murderous. Cruel.

If he spills blood here, he fears he might become that man again.

He shuts his eyes, listening in the silence. Images creep into his mind, too bright. Too much. Christine on her knees, sobbing. Begging him. Sounds come next. Raoul, screaming as he cut her down from the noose. Telling Christine to go without her.

A melody plays in his head, and words too.

_Atonement._

_Atonement._

_Atonement._

This imposter exists because he existed, and though he is not responsible for the financial decisions of a stuffed-up aristocrat, he cannot deny his hand in the creation of this situation.

A noise comes from above.

The flies.

Erik feels for the pistol at his belt, and he runs.

He makes his way _up up up_ , and the marquis shoves him. Erik, of course, knows this place, he knows how to keep his balance up here, hanging onto the ropes and steadying his feet.

“Come with me,” Erik growls. “And end this now.”

“You freak!” the marquis shouts, shoving at him again, though it only causes him to lose his own footing. “Get away from me.”

They wrestle for control. Erik’s pistol falls, hitting the stage with a loud, echoing thud. He doesn’t need it, and he doesn’t really want to shoot the Marquis, anyway. No, if he’s forced to kill him, he needs to make it look like a fall. An accident. Then, no one will ever know there was a second—less impressive—opera ghost. The opera, successful as it’s been, will hopefully be able to continue under Raoul and Andre’s management. Meg Giry may keep her place as prima ballerina, which will please Antoinette.

Christine will keep singing.

Somewhere in the theater, Ismael calls out his name.

_Erik!_

A knife smears silver light through the pitch black, a wild swing narrowly missing Erik’s abdomen.

When the Marquis shoves him again, Erik makes a choice. He will not die at the hands of this man.

He doesn’t need a rope to do the deed.

Movement happens in slow motion.

“Stop,” Erik hears himself say, distantly. “I’m warning you.”

Even the Marquis’ wild-eyed fear does not make him heed the warning. He’s the sort of man who always wins in the end, he’s used to it, and whatever the odds here, he seems to think victory is still assured as he swings at Erik one final time.

The subtle, sickening sound of a neck snapping rings in Erik’s ears. The marquis crumples, dead in an instant. His corpse slips from the catwalk as Erik releases him, crashing down onto the stage.

Everything goes still.

Erik freezes. He looks out across the theater, seeing a candle flickering in the dark—Ismael, standing in front of the orchestra pit.

No monster appears. No rage in Erik’s chest. no glee at taking the life of someone he felt deserved it.

Perhaps Christine Daae really did banish the phantom that night, when she made a choice to save Raoul’s life, even if it meant sacrificing herself. When she made a choice to give a ghost back his humanity.

That’s what the things he did all were in the end, weren’t they? The lies. The murders. They were choices. The world made the choice to be monstrous to him, and he in turn chose to be a monster.

He sees, now, that it wasn’t the only choice. That it was not a foregone conclusion. That he can be in control of what he does and who he hurts.

“Erik?” Ismael asks. “Are you all right?”

There’s no judgement in his voice. No lecture. Just friendship, and Erik doesn’t deserve him, but he knows that without Daroga and Antoinette, he would have been lost forever.

There is good in the world, isn’t there?

“Yes,” Erik calls back. “Hold on a moment.”

The journey from the flies to the stage seems to take forever. Erik stretches his fingers, the fingers that just killed someone. He doesn’t feel remorse, exactly, not after what that man just did, but there is a kind of ache in his stomach.

He killed a man for Raoul de Chagny. For Christine too, of course, but also for Raoul. His rival. His former enemy his…

….well, _friend_ is putting too fine a point on it. He doesn’t have a word that suits.

Erik doesn’t meet Ismael’s eyes. “I know you said _no more murders_ , Daroga. I’m sorry.”

Ismael doesn’t say anything at first, and for a moment, Erik thinks he might be angry. That is not unusual, but he finds he doesn’t want to bear his friend’s anger now. He wants Ismael to be proud of him. A childish notion, but Erik has never claimed to be otherwise, whatever his genius.

“My friend,” Ismael says, grasping Erik’s shoulder for a brief moment. “This time, you don’t need to be sorry. You did what was right.”

“Thank you.” Erik offers a rare smile to Ismael, knowing the urgency of Raoul’s situation, and he finds himself, somehow, hoping for her survival.

“Erik?”

“Yes, Daroga?”

“Did you send me the other way on purpose?”

Erik’s smile turns into a smirk. “Yes, Daroga.”

A soft chuckle escapes Ismael’s lips. “Ah. You do care, I see.”

“I needed you out of my way.” Erik clears his throat against the oncoming tide of emotion. “What are we going to do with the body?”

“That,” Ismael replies. “Is an excellent question.” 

* * *

“My love,” Christine urges. “You have to stay awake. Stay awake for me.”

A bleeding, short-of-breath Raoul lays in her arms, Philippe crouching next to them.

“Christine,” Raoul murmurs, one shaking hand reaching up toward Christine’s face. “Christine,” she repeats, fingers trailing down Christine’s cheek. “He told me you were probably dead. That you were shot. I tried not to believe him. I thought I would know if you were. That I would feel it.”

“Oh, sweetheart.” Tears well in Christine’s eyes as she rests her forehead against Raoul’s, because she’s felt the same thing, these past few days. “I’m all right. Philippe made sure I was. He made sure.”

She surveys Raoul’s injuries like she did that night in the little boat, and she doesn’t welcome the return of those same feelings. A cut on Raoul’s cheek. A shallow wound on her shoulder. A bruised wrist. She’s without half her clothes, her shirt sleeve ripped. The worst things, however, are more subtle. Her shallow breaths. Her pinpoint pupils. Tiny wounds where Alexandre injected her with the drugs. Christine presses her fingers lightly against Raoul’s neck—her pulse is thready, too. Fast.

“Philippe.” Raoul smiles, but it’s strange. Stretched. “Philippe you saved her. You came for me.”

Philippe’s voice cracks, though he does not tell her about his injury. “Of course. Of course I did.” He glances at the empty syringe on the floor. “Raoul, how much Morphine did Alexandre give you.”

Another smile. Still strange.

“It was Laudanum first,” she says, taking a gulp of air. “Then Morphine. Then again. And I think…I think again? Then more when he got her. He tried to smother me.” Alarm flashes in her eyes, but still there’s that _smile_. “Is Simone all right?”

“She’s safe,” Christine says, leaving out, for now, the fact that Alexandre is Simone’s father. She’s not sure Raoul knows, and she might not even remember if Christine tells her now. “She’s with Meg and Madame Giry.”

Raoul chuckles, and it sends shivers down Christine’s spine.

“Madame Giry? Remember when we thought she was the ghost Christine? How silly of us. It made sense at the time.”

Christine’s stomach sinks. What does this mean? She doesn’t know a great deal about Morphine overdoses, she only knows it’s happened to injured soldiers. She was always very careful with dosing the Laudanum properly when Raoul was ill after the lair, but it’s clear that Alexandre was trying to kill Raoul with the Morphine. Erik and Ismael were right about that.

Footsteps come closer, and Phillipe stands up, pulling his pistol out. It’s only Erik and Ismael, with no sign of Alexandre in sight.

“The Marquis is dead,” Erik says without ceremony. “He went up to the flies. He tried to kill me, so I’m afraid there was no choice. I won’t give you the details if you would prefer not to hear them.”

For a moment, no one says anything.

Christine looks at Erik.

Erik looks back.

Christine opens her mouth to speak, to thank him—a strange feeling, when he had to kill someone, here within these walls, especially—but she’s cut off by another sound.

The sound of Raoul laughing.

Raoul’s chest heaves between each laugh with a tinge of high-pitched hysteria, and she sucks in air like she can’t get enough.

“Raoul?” Christine asks, panic pounding in her veins. “Raoul are you all right?”

“The first opera ghost…” she laughs again. “Killed the second. There can only be one.” She laughs _again_ , then frowns, her eyes flicking up to Erik. “Did you do that for me?”

Erik frowns, too, focusing on Christine and Philippe rather than answering the question. “We need to get her home and a doctor to see her, immediately.”

He doesn’t say that Raoul must have enough drugs in her system to be veering dangerously close to overdose—that much, at least, seems clear. Erik’s concern is only a confirmation.

“What about the body?” Philippe asks. “I don’t want the police thinking Raoul had anything to do with this. And they might.”

“They won’t.” Erik speaks with more surety than Christine feels. “Ismael and I will take care of it.” He turns toward his friend. “Ismael will you…”

“I’ll wait here with the recently deceased Marquis,” he says, without Erik needing to finish. “If you would be so kind as to lend Erik one of your carriages, Monsieur le Comte, after he sees you all home.”

“Yes,” Philippe replies, and he oddly doesn’t press for detail. “Whatever you need.” He meets Christine’s eye, moving closer. “I know you don’t want to let go, but I need to pick her up.”

“No,” Erik cuts in.

“What?” Philippe shoots back, though with far less vitriol than before.

“You’re hurt,” Erik clarifies. “I’ll do it.”

Confusion passes across Philippe’s face, and he looks like he wants to argue but cannot summon a reason to do so. Not when Erik just killed Alexandre precisely to keep them safe. Christine is still making sense of it, and she knows Erik better.

She presses a kiss to Raoul’s sweaty forehead. “We’re going to get you home, love. You’re going to be all right.”

She doesn’t know if that’s true, but she swears to God that she’ll will it into being. She is not losing Raoul. No.

“Philippe are you hurt?” Raoul mutters. “Are you hurt?”

“Just a small nick, ma petite,” Philippe whispers. “I’m fine.”

Christine reluctantly moves away as Erik approaches. He looks Raoul in the face, speaking to her before he even touches her, and the sight of it takes Christine’s breath away.

“I’m going to pick you up,” Erik tells her. “Are you injured anywhere aside from your shoulder?”

“Alexandre hit my head against the floor. And he kicked me in the ribs.” Raoul chuckles again as if this is terribly funny, before growing momentarily more solemn. “You killed him?”

“I killed him,” Erik echoes, the words those of a grumbling uncle. “He is quite dead, I assure you.”

“Quite dead.” Raoul’s laugh turns into a cough. “Quite dead. I didn’t know someone could be _quite_ dead.”

Erik lifts Raoul up bridal style into his arms, her long legs hanging down as he attempts to cradle her head against his shoulder. Christine cannot help but think of that other night, when she asked Erik to help her carry Raoul to the boat. Never, in a thousand years, could she have predicted this then.

Raoul giggles as Erik carries her toward the door. “You’re the opera ghost.”

“Indeed.”

“You wanted to kill me.”

“Not anymore.”

“Oh,” Raoul sighs. “Good.”

Philippe helps Christine up from the floor, and she turns to Ismael, a question on her lips.

“What’s wrong with her?”

Ismael squeezes her hand. “Sometimes Morphine can cause a kind of extreme happiness, as a side effect, especially if it builds in your system, but that’s not really the concerning part, here—it can happen with non-lethal doses. It’s her breathing. I know she has some pre-existing troubles sometimes with that because of…” he glances out toward the hallway. “Especially in the cold weather. You’ll need to get the doctor when you arrive home and have him monitor her.”

“Has she overdosed?” Philippe asks.

“She’s still responsive, which I believe is in our favor. Go. I’ll be all right here.”

Christine and Philippe both thank him profusely, and they’ll just have to find out what the plans for Alexandre’s corpse are later. Perhaps even Ismael and Erik don’t know, yet. There’s Jacques’ too, of course, back at the house. What are they going to tell Eloise? Her children?

Christine shakes her head. First, they have to make Raoul well. That’s what’s most important right now.

She prays to God. She prays to the spirit of her father that she first thought she heard in this room, but just because it wasn’t him, it doesn’t mean he didn’t hear her prayers.

Raoul has to be all right.

She has to be.


	16. A Ghost Who Bleeds!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erik sits with the sins he's committed, and the new person he's become. Raoul struggles for her life, while Eloise finds out about her husband's death. Christine realizes her own courage, and deep in the night, one ghost cleans up the mess his unwanted successor left behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Janazah is an Islamic funeral prayer, if my research is correct! There is a mention of it later.

The carriage screeches to a halt outside the de Chagny townhouse, the wheels screaming and scraping against the paving stones, Marcel having, perhaps, driven a little too fast.

Erik’s steps into the sunset as he alights. It feels like it should be the dead of night, yet somehow it’s only early evening. The horses breath heavy breaths near his head, tired from the quick journey.

“Christine,” The Comte says gently from inside. “You have to let go of her, my dear. Let me hand her off to Erik.”

Philippe de Chagny, saying his name. Christine, willing to hand her wife into his arms.

He helped save Raoul de Chagny’s life. He killed someone for her, inside the very opera house where not so very long ago, he nearly murdered her. Impossibility is the only word that comes to mind, but it’s not impossible. It happened.

“Give her to me, Christine. I’ll be careful,” Erik hears himself say. Here’s another man altogether say because the man speaking cannot be him, can it? “You don’t need to worry.”

Christine sniffs, pressing a kiss to Raoul’s forehead. Philippe picks up his sister, wincing at the pain in his arm before handing her off to Erik. The girl’s taller than average for a woman, but she feels light in his grasp, somehow. She’s not giggling anymore, though there is a manic, giddy gleam in her eyes, mixed in with the drowsiness.

“Are we home?” One hard cough makes her whole body jerk, a thin whistle of a wheeze coming up from her lungs. “It feels like we’re home.” 

“Yes, you’re home,” Erik answers, stepping toward the front door. “I’m taking you inside.”

“I feel so strange,” Raoul says, her eyes fluttering closed for a moment before another odd smile stretches across her face. “So…so very strange.”

“You have a great deal of morphine in your system. And you hit your head.”

“Yes,” Raoul mutters, looking up at him with wide, hazy eyes. “Am I going to die?”

Someone might as well have struck Erik in the chest for the way the air goes out of him. The way the question cracks his bones until he might collapse into a heap on the ground.

He wanted to murder this girl. Brutally. Mercilessly. And now, he doesn’t know how he’ll live with himself if she dies. Softness is not his forte, and no one would accuse him of having any kind of bedside manner. The truth is he doesn’t know if Raoul will die, but despite his propensity for bluntness, he opts not to answer with the entire truth.

“No,” he says, hoping that her continued responsiveness is indeed a positive sign. “You’ll be all right.”

Any further questions are cut off by the front door opening. Juliette appears, one hand flying to her mouth. Ghosts shimmer in her eyes. Ghosts that look like him. He’s never asked Christine or Raoul about the direct aftermath of the lair. Raoul was ill for quite some time, he knows the details of that, but the immediate hours are a blank to him. What was it like, for the de Chagny siblings to see their youngest arrive half-dead, barely breathing, and covered in blood? To see Christine in a wedding dress? 

“Juliette,” The Comte says, coming up to his sister. “Where is Eloise?”

“Upstairs with Francois and the children and Felix.” Tears spill down her cheeks as she looks down at Raoul, her eyes darting toward Erik with a touch of suspicion he can’t blame her for. “What…what’s wrong with her?”

“Juliette,” Raoul tries, another one of those strange laughs bubbling up. “Juliette, I’m…”

“Shhh.” Christine is at Erik’s shoulder now, unwilling to be far from Raoul for even a moment. “We’ll tell Juliette everything, don’t worry.”

“Morphine,” Philippe explains at Juliette’s perplexed glance. “We need to get her inside, I’ve sent Marcel for Dr. Aubert, and then we need to let the poor man rest, God bless him.”

Juliette peers at her brother. “Is Alexandre…” she turns, making sure there’s no one behind her and lowering her voice. “Is he dead?”

Philippe only nods.

There’s not time for an explanation, right now.

Juliette runs a finger down Raoul’s cheek, barely paying Erik any mind. “My sweet girl.”

Something rises up in Erik’s chest. In his eyes. They feel…wet.

“We need to lay her down,” Erik says, more firmly than he means to. “And we should warm her feet. That’s meant to be useful for a concussion. The Marquis knocked her head rather hard.”

“Against the floor,” Raoul echoes, twisting a bit in Erik’s arms. “Christine? Where is Christine?”

“I’m here, my love.” Christine moves closer, her hand brushing against Erik’s as it comes to rest on Raoul’s cheek. “I’m right here.”

“Not dead?” Raoul questions. “Alexandre said you were dead.”

Erik’s breath catches. What the hell is wrong with him?

“I’m very alive,” Christine assures her. “I promise you.”

Philippe ushers them inside, but before they can get Raoul upstairs Eloise comes rushing down. She claps both hands over her mouth, a stifled scream slipping out through the gaps between her fingers.

“Eloise, come upstairs with me, all right?” Philippe puts a hand on his sister’s shoulder. A shaking, trembling hand.

“Is she all right?”

“Eloise, please…”

“Philippe is she all right?”

“She will be.” The Comte speaks with surety, like he will make it so. “Please, come up to my study.”

The air goes out of the room as Eloise looks behind them, searching for any sign of her husband. Erik’s face grows hot beneath his mask and _oh_ he wants _out_ of this house for a while. He wants a moment alone desperately.

He killed this woman’s husband. He had to, there was no question.

Still, he killed him.

A pang reverberates through his chest, leaving a bloody wound behind. Or at least, he feels like he’s bleeding. The Comte is lending his own personal carriage, and Erik, knowing how to drive one, said he would do so. No need to incriminate either Marcel or the Comte’s driver Louis in this situation.

Christine leads them up the stairs, Juliette following behind. Eloise and Philippe come up just after, going in the opposite direction. A servant—Raoul’s ladies maid, Erik assumes—dashes in behind them just as he lays her down on the bed. He must wait until full dark to take the carriage and go back to the opera, so he steps into the sitting room beyond the bedchamber, letting Christine, Juliette, and the maid do their work. It is strange, to be in Christine and Raoul’s private space for more than the moment he spent with Christine earlier, like he is intruding upon something he shouldn’t see, and which neither of them intended on him ever seeing. Pieces of them are everywhere. Raoul’s violin case. Books marked where one of them left off laying on the table in front of him. Papers that look as if they belong to a music teacher.

Christine. Christine must be teaching someone.

And _someone_ comes bursting in before he can finish another thought. A young girl, not more than fifteen. She doesn’t scream at the sight of him or his mask, which is surprising—she just stares.

She looks familiar.

“Who are you?” she asks without ceremony.

“Erik.”

He doesn’t offer anything more because this must be a de Chagny child of some sort, and he doesn’t know how much _they_ know.

The girl peers at him, a touch imperious, and she isn’t afraid of him, really. “You’re the opera ghost. I knew something funny was going on. What are you doing here, and…”

“Estelle.” Juliette rushes in, a smear of Raoul’s blood on the sleeve of her dress. “Darling, please, you can’t be here.”

The girl called Estelle puts both hands on her hips with fire in her blue eyes. “Maman, what’s wrong with Tante Raoul?”

Ah. Erik realizes _exactly_ who this girl reminds him of.

Before Juliette can answer, before she can even open her mouth, a scream rips through the house. It’s faint, in here, but they all hear it.

Eloise, no doubt. The Comte must have told her.

“Maman, please,” Estelle presses. “What’s happening? I’m old enough to know.”

Juliette sighs, shutting her eyes before focusing on her daughter. “Your uncle Alexandre drugged Raoul. He’s why she’s been missing these past few days. She is ill, and we are waiting for the doctor. Please, my sweet, go back to Papa. I promise I will tell you everything.”

Estelle ignores the plea.

“I want to help. Please let me help.”

“Estelle.”

“Maman.”

“Fine. I need some warm cloths from the kitchen. Bring those up, but then please, I’m asking you to go back to your father and Henri and your cousins. They’ll need you, but I need you to keep this to yourself for now.”

Estelle’s voice trembles. “Why?”

Juliette’s hands go to her daughter’s shoulders, and Erik looks on in awe, at the chaos of this family going on around him, this family he thought he knew everything about when he tried to kill Raoul. De Chagny. Rich. _Very_ rich. Old family. He thought he didn’t need to know anything else. Aside from Meg Giry, Christine was a deeply lonely girl when he first stumbled across her, and now, he realizes, she didn’t just gain a partner when she entwined her life with Raoul’s. She gained a family, too.”

“Because,” Juliette says. “Your Uncle Alexandre is dead.”

The girl’s eyes widen. “Did he…did he try to kill Tante Raoul?”

Juliette nods. “I’m afraid so. Your little cousins don’t know yet, so please keep this between us for now. I’ll need you to watch them while I talk to your Papa in a short while.”

The girl doesn’t cry. She doesn’t shout. She doesn’t make a noise. She just straightens her spine, hugs her mother tight, and goes off to retrieve the warm cloths.

Erik smiles, just a little.

Juliette heads back toward her sister’s bedchamber, and at first, Erik doesn’t think she’ll pay him any mind. At least, until her hand clenches around the doorframe and she turns around, giving him a potent, piercing gaze.

“You killed my brother-in-law.”

A statement. Not a question.

“Yes.”

“To save Raoul’s life.”

A statement, again.

The contrary part of Erik wants to argue. To say no, that it just happened that way, that he hadn’t killed anyone in a while and wanted to scratch the itch. That it was all and entirely for Christine. That he didn’t give Raoul a second thought.

But that would make him a liar.

“Yes.”

He repeats the word, and the lines in Juliette’s face soften before she goes back into Raoul and Christine’s room.

Erik waits. He shouldn’t leave Ismael alone for long—an immigrant in an empty opera house with a corpse risks rather a lot—but the sun is not quite down, and he feels as if Christine should tell him it’s all right to go. As if summoned by his thoughts, Christine comes out, apparently with the specific intent of speaking to him.

“Erik,” she says, her voice hoarse with held back tears. “I need to stay with Raoul, but I wanted to say thank you, and I wanted to ask if…” she stumbles here, but she meets his eyes, not looking down at the floor like she did when he used to teach her, even if she couldn’t see him.

It makes him love her more. It makes him love her more, though in a different way than before. It’s a softer, warmer, less all-consuming feeling. Pride in who she’s become. Pride in who she’s become despite him.

The affection of a teacher for his student.

“I wanted to ask if,” she continues. “If you and Ismael could come back, when you’re done with…everything.”

“Yes,” Erik responds, without hesitation. “We can come back.”

“Thank you,” Christine whispers. “For what you did. For what you’re going to do it’s…”

Erik holds up hand. “You may thank Daroga. Do not thank me.”

She doesn’t argue. She does kiss him on the cheek.

She is a good, generous person, and he does not deserve her kindness.

He goes, after that, taking the directions of the Comte’s rather startled valet, who points him to the perhaps even more startled carriage driver, who helps him harness the horses and settle everything. Erik pulls his hat down further over his mask, the dark and his black clothes doing most of the job of hiding him. The carriage driver walks off, leaving Erik alone in the night as he steps up into the seat.

For a long moment, he sits. He breathes. He touches the cheek Christine kissed. He takes the reigns with shaking fingers, the horses’ breath making white puffs in the cool, damp air. He drops them again.

And he…

He shuts his eyes and he…

He cries.

He does not sob. He is too in the open, too vulnerable for that when his every instinct is to keep hidden until he chooses to be seen. They are quiet tears, but they come streaming down his face without warning.

On second thought, perhaps this whole night has been a warning.

He came so close to destroying Raoul de Chagny. To destroying Christine. But it wasn’t just them he might have destroyed. It was an entire family.

The man he was down in his lair wouldn’t have cared. Even the man who let Raoul and Christine go wouldn’t have cared about that, if pressed. It was Christine and only Christine he cared about then, even if he was horrified at what he’d done to Raoul. Tonight, as he stared down the Marquis, who was bent on the same destruction, he had the gift of hindsight. Raoul was in his arms, rather than whoever carried her in after the events of the lair. He could see what her loss would do not just to Christine, but to so many others. He could see what he might have taken from Christine, either if he forced her to be his wife, or if he’d killed Raoul.

He could see he could see he could _see._ A kind of limbo consumed him, for the past year. A purgatory in which he did not move backward, but he did not move forward, either. He simply existed, caught between who he was and who he didn’t know he could be. He’s spent all this time longing for Christine’s forgiveness, and he sees now, that forgiveness is not something he can exact from Christine in exchange for his atonement. He has attempted to atone, and she does not owe him any words in return. Forgiveness is her choice. Not his. Atonement is only what he owes her, and she need not repay him for it.

He adjusts in his seat, wincing as he wipes his eyes with the back of his hand. There’s a scratch there, aggravated by his movements, that he didn’t notice before, like someone scraped their fingernails on his skin. The Marquis, no doubt, one ghost wounding another. It is funny, Erik thinks, how people truly believed he was a ghost, so much so that he wondered if maybe it was the truth and he’d just forgotten.

But he is not a ghost, because ghosts do not bleed. Ghosts do not cry, as he just did.

The horses snort and stomp, growing restless, and so Erik walks them on, heading toward the opera house in the infancy of this autumn evening.

Into, perhaps, the infancy of a new life. 

* * *

Eloise’s scream rips through the house.

Philippe holds her. He holds her against him, and he doesn’t know what to say.

_Alexandre’s gone_ , he said a moment ago, prompting the scream that broke his sister’s heart and then his own.

Gone. Not dead. Gone. He was gone, the moment they found out the truth. The man Eloise married, anyway, the man they thought they all knew. Now he is simply gone in another way.

“You don’t care,” Eloise sobs, though she doesn’t break out of his grasp.

“I do care.”

He searches for a term of endearment, but that has never really been their way. With Juliette and Raoul, there has always been another element aside from being his sisters. Juliette is a partner, the mother of the heir to his title, and like another parent to Raoul. Raoul is his child. Eloise has always been just his sister, and maybe he let her fall through the cracks. Ten years younger than him, there was enough of a gap between them that they were not playmates, but not enough of one to turn him into a father figure as well as a brother. Eloise confided in Juliette when she was younger, and he did not see fit to infringe upon the secrets of sisters. Then Eloise didn’t really confide in anyone at all, finding solace in her many friends and eventually her husband and children, until her siblings were more of an afterthought. She fought with Raoul. She bickered with him over his defense of Raoul. Juliette kept the peace but then Juliette and Francois went to the country for a few years, and Philippe fell into a life with Raoul in Paris, seeing Eloise when she so chose, even though he would have liked to see her more.

He should have tried harder.

“I do care,” he repeats. “Eloise we all care.”

She sniffs, pulling out of his embrace and accepting the handkerchief he hands her.

“He was going to kill Raoul?”

“Yes. He was.”

“Could she still die?”

“I…” Philippe’s voice betrays him. “Yes. But we’re hopeful.”

“What do I tell the children?” She looks at him, wide-eyed. “Philippe, do we even know what Alexandre did with all of the money? Do we even…”

“I don’t have all the facts.” He puts his hands on her shoulders. “Raoul will have to tell us those when she’s well. But…” She looks up at him, and they lock eyes. “…I will take care of you and the children. Protect you. Shield you, where I can. You will not want. Ever. None of you.”

These are the words that Eloise, perhaps of all his sisters, needs most to hear. It is not that Juliette and Raoul do not desire his encouragement and his blessing—far from it—they just look for it in different ways. Juliette wishes for his advice and his treatment of her as an equal. Raoul wants to know that he loves her without condition, that he will not shame her as too many in the world might. Eloise, lost in the cracks of their parents dying and not needing as much care as a very young Raoul, has always wanted his approval. Assurance. Safety. These are not the wrong things to want, he just didn’t see her need for them through the walls she built around herself. The ways she acted out and pretended she didn’t need anything. She has always been more traditional than Juliette—and certainly more than Raoul—and when she married, the distance only grew.

For so long, it has been the three of them. Philippe, Juliette, and Raoul.

Now, hopefully it will be the four of them, instead. He hoped for that when he instituted those family dinners after everything at the opera, after everything between Raoul and Eloise, hoping to bring their stray sister home. He just didn’t know that her husband was out for money and blood.

“I loved him,” Eloise says, wiping her eyes as Philippe releases her.

“I know.”

“I love Raoul.”

“I know that too.”

“Where is…” Eloise sucks in a breath. “…his body?”

This, Philippe does not want to answer. How does he even speak to the fact that the other man who tried to murder Raoul was partly responsible for saving her life? He must, however, tell the truth—the experiences of the last few days, his argument with Raoul, have taught him the perils of coddling his sisters when they do not desire it.

“Monsieur Khan and Erik…” he realizes he possesses no last name for the former opera ghost. “…are going to take care of that. I don’t have full details, only that they will remove Alexandre’s body from the opera and take it to the house where he was keeping Raoul. It will need to look like he fell there. It…it will be easier on many fronts that way. I would not have the police knowing about this, or they might blame Raoul or Christine. And I would not have you live under the shadow of Alexandre’s actions. No one need know the truth. I would ask that you wait to tell the children about their father’s death until we can report the discovered body, in case anyone asks them any questions. Later, we can talk about telling them the truth about what he did, and how he died—that may be quite difficult, and they are terribly young. But you are their mother and I will trust your judgement there. But we should hold off, for now.”

Eloise half collapses into Philippe’s desk chair, resting her head in her hands. “The ghost killed him?” she asks, without looking up.

“Yes. Though I think he did not like to. Alexandre was…” he winces here. “Alexandre was attempting to smother Raoul, when we arrived. There was, I’m afraid, not much choice.”

No more tears come. Eloise just says his name softly, desperately, and and Philippe kneels down on the floor next to his sister’s chair, taking her hand in his. His bones ache. His arm stings. His brain beats against his skull, pain throbbing at his temples.

And he prays that his family will make it through the night. 

* * *

The world floats in and out of Raoul’s vision, every touch amplified, every sound crackling in her ears.

Christine’s hand on her cheek. Juliette’s voice, speaking to Madeline. Sharp stings drag down her skin as the three of them attempt to change her clothes.

“It hurts,” she hears herself say, everything in front of her going dark around the edges again.

“I know, my love,” Christine whispers. “It’s all right. It’s all right.”

“It’s all right,” Raoul echoes, whether for herself or Christine’s benefit she doesn’t know. Nothing feels terribly all right, at present, but Christine is here. Christine is here and she is home.

Raoul’s brain disconnects from her body as the old, dirty clothes come off, and she might be floating for all she knows, that strange, uncontrollable giddiness she felt earlier just within reach, like she’s caught between laughing and screaming. She’d rather laugh, all things considered. Her ruined, ripped shirt hits the bedroom carpets as the dead sun gives its last gasp.

Christine goes, for a moment. Out the door.

“No.” Raoul twists at the touch of someone else’s hands, screwing her eyes shut tight. Who is touching her? “No.”

“She’ll be right back _ma petite_.”

Juliette’s voice.

Juliette’s hands?

Raoul opens her eyes, her vision righting again.

Yes, Juliette.

“Dark,” Raoul mutters. “Juliette I hate the dark.” A laugh-scream catches in her throat, spilling past her lips, and she bites down so hard it makes them bleed. “Juliette please close the curtains, please close them.”

Juliette complies before helping Raoul into a clean nightdress and someone—Estelle?—places warm, damp cloths on her feet.

“I love you _tata_ ,” the person who put the cloths on her feet says. Estelle. It must be Estelle.

Raoul wills her brain to work.

Alexandre is dead?

Erik’s deep, dangerous voice rings in her head, though it did not sound so dangerous at the time.

_I assure you he is quite dead._

This gives her courage. Clarity.

“I love you _ma sucre_ ,” Raoul says.

Estelle goes. Noise comes from the bathroom. Water. Madeline brings a bowl over, putting it on the nightstand. A cool cloth brushes against Raoul’s cheek, coming away with splotches of red.

Christine. Raoul knows her touch anywhere.

Did she come back? She must have. She’s here, sitting on the edge of the bed.

“I’m here,” Christine murmurs, potentially reading Raoul’s thoughts. “I’m right here.” She picks up Raoul’s wrist, dabbing at the cut before pressing a kiss to the tip of each finger. “You’re safe.”

“It was so cold, Christine. I was so cold. There was no fire. Alexandre wouldn’t light it. I knew I couldn’t ask him. He would just say no.”

“I know, my love. I know.”

“Raoul, sweet, can you tell me how much you’ve eaten?” Juliette asks.

“Bread,” Raoul answers her sister. “Cheese. Some water. Not very much.”

A heaviness envelopes her. Air comes into her lungs, but not enough. She’s lightheaded, but how can she be heavy and not, all at once? Ringing. There’s ringing in her ears, too. Is that real? No. Yes?

“I’m so tired.” She latches onto Christine’s free hand, their fingers tangled together. “Christine, I’m so tired.”

A breath catches in Christine’s chest, and Raoul’s heart contracts.

“You need to stay with us until Doctor Aubert comes,” Christine says. “Keep your eyes open for me, all right?”

Raoul shifts against the pillows. Stay awake. Stay _awake._

“Need to sit up,” she replies. “Have to sit up.”

Christine and Juliette help her do so. The world tilts. Raoul pulls her knees up to her chest, resting her head there.

“Oh, there’s a bit of blood on the pillowcase here.” Juliette puts her hand on Raoul’s back, removing the offending pillow and replacing it with another.

“Alexandre hit my head against the floor.” Raoul takes Christine’s hand again, swearing that it’s the only thing making reality stick. “I told Erik.” Confusion strikes her. Impossibility. She looks back up at Christine. “He carried me out?”

“He did. He’s gone now.” Christine moves her thumb back and forth across Raoul’s palm. “He’ll be back.”

A knock at the door makes Raoul jump.

“Doctor Aubert,” Juliette says. “We’re so glad you’re here.”

“Juliette, my dear.” Doctor Aubert presses her hand, setting his bag down. “Raoul’s driver wanted me to pass on the message that he was going home to sleep but said to send for him should you need anything.”

The doctor’s footsteps are loud against the carpet. Why are they loud? Everything is loud. Another giggle bubbles up in her chest and she snorts, though that soon turns into a cough, and the cough hits against her chest with a sharp, buzzing pain. She wants to sleep. She wants to _sleep_.

“She was drugged,” Christine explains, not leaving Raoul’s side. “Laudanum first, then Morphine, over several days. And she hit her head. And there’s a knife wound on her shoulder.”

“My ribs,” Raoul adds. “Alexandre kicked me.”

Should she have said Alexandre’s name? It’s too late, if not.

“Alexandre?” Doctor Aubert asks, his voice going up before he pursues another line of questioning. “Are you having trouble breathing, Raoul my dear?”

Raoul nods.

“I’m going to need to get close,” Doctor Aubert warns. “I won’t hurt you.” He takes her face gently in his hand, peering into her eyes. “Pupils are contracting. That’s the Morphine. Do you know how many doses you had?”

“Three?” Raoul answers, her memory slipping away from her. “Four? That sounds right. I passed out.”

“Hmmm. Is your vision blurry? Do you have a headache?”

“Yes. Both.”

“Hmm, you are concussed I’m afraid. Some physicians inject strychnine for that, but I…”

“No!” Raoul exclaims, holding tighter to Christine’s hand. “No, please.”

“I’m not going to,” he assures her. “I see they’ve already got you some warm cloths, so let’s use your inhaler and then I’ll clean you up, if that’s all right?”

Raoul can only nod, exhaustion crashing over her. Stay awake stay awake stay awake.

The familiar, medicated taste tickles her tongue as Doctor Aubert puts the glass mouthpiece to her lips. It does make her lungs ache less, but that heaviness still rests on her chest, like someone is pushing down. He cleans the blood from her hair and her shoulder, bandaging them as well as her wrist.

Christine stays with her the entire time, never moving from her spot on the bed except for when she must. Juliette stays too, sitting on the chaise near the window like she might be guarding Raoul from the darkness outside. The smell of camphor fills the air, the scent of menthol piercing Raoul’s nose as Doctor Aubert spreads some on her chest, in addition to what he’s already put on her wounds.

“I need to borrow Christine and your sister for just a moment,” he says after a half hour or so. “Will you be all right with Madeline? I promise they’ll be right back.”

Raoul agrees, though she does not want to.

“I love you.” Christine’s breath is warm, her lips pressed lightly against Raoul’s ear. “I love you. Always, always I love you.”

The words seep into Raoul’s skin, and they do still her heart, a little.

“Little Lotte,” Raoul says, desperately, because what if she does not get another chance? She holds the words close against her heart. “I love you.”

What if Christine does not come back? What if Alexandre or Jacques appears and steals her away?

Wait, no. They are dead. They are dead. She saw Jacques die. She did not see Alexandre die. Erik just told her he was dead. She can trust Erik.

How strange.

She laughs again, and she isn’t sure if it’s the drugs or the idea that the opera ghost saved her life.

The laugh turns into crying. She doesn’t want to cry. She does want to cry.

Madeline tucks a strand of hair behind Raoul’s ear, taking Christine’s place on the bed. “Don’t worry, sweet girl,” she says. “You’re going to be all right.”

The trouble is, Raoul isn’t sure if she’s right. 

* * *

Philippe’s hurried, long strides across the hardwood in the hallway alert Christine to his presence as soon as she and Juliette step out with Doctor Aubert. Juliette opens her mouth like she wants to ask Philippe where Eloise is, but refrains for the doctor’s sake. Raoul already spoke Alexandre’s name, and it’s not as if any of them wanted to pretend Raoul accidentally overdosed herself—that would be rather a different situation. Doctor Aubert, bless him, hasn’t prodded, and Christine can only guess it’s because he’s known the de Chagny’s so long that he trusts whatever they might be up to. They trusted him after the lair, and they must see fit to trust him now. At least he didn’t see Erik, who is indeed, still a wanted man.

Christine thinks of Meg and Simone. It’s early evening yet, perhaps she could send Lucien with a message. She wants them to know what’s happening, urgently, but there’s so much going on here that she must focus on the moment at hand.

Raoul. Her sweet, beloved Raoul.

She has to make it. She has to make it.

“How is she?” Philippe chokes on his words, and they split in two as they emerge. “Is she all right?”

Doctor Aubert frowns, a grimness in the downturn of his lips. “She has not fallen into any sort of coma, which I hope means she has avoided an overdose.”

“Hope?” Christine takes Juliette’s hand, needing something to hold onto. “What do you mean?”

“It is a close thing.” Doctor Aubert sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Her strange giddiness, her desire to sleep, her pupils, her breathing, her entire demeanor indicates a significant amount of Morphine in her system. More than any reasonable doctor would prescribe. He concussion is mild and the small wounds she sustained will heal. It is the drugs that are of most concern.”

“Is there anything to be done?” Christine asks, appreciating that Philippe is letting her take the lead here. “Can she vomit it up, or anything like that?”

Doctor Aubert shakes his head. “I saw the injection marks, which means it’s in her bloodstream. An ipecac might have done for something like Laudanum, that she swallowed. There is, I’m afraid, nothing to do but wait for the Morphine to leave her system. You’re going to need to keep her awake. She’s not going to like that.” He pauses, furrowing his brow. “This is not the first time Raoul has been a victim of a crime, and I chose not press then, and given how well I know you all, I will not do so now. However, if someone—Alexandre, or someone else—didn’t feed her well enough, you’ll need to see that. She may not be able to keep much down, but something will help. Soup. Tea. Things like that. If she vomits that will be less troublesome, and she very well may be sick, so be on the lookout for that, as well as any worse trouble breathing. Or her falling unconscious, especially.”

Christine privately thinks that Raoul may not ever want to touch tea again, but she keeps that to herself. Goosebumps shoot up her skin, her heart thump-thump-thumping out of rhythm.

“You should keep her warm, though she may sweat,” Doctor Aubert continues. “The cold aggravates her lungs after her experience at the opera, and I do not want anything making it even harder for her to breathe. Use the medicated inhaler as needed. If you need me I will come as quickly as possible.” He smiles at Christine, reaching out for her hand. “I know you will take good care of her.”

Tears fill Christine’s eyes, the weight of everything crashing down on her shoulders. “Thank you, Doctor Aubert. For everything.”

The good doctor makes to go, turning back around once more toward Philippe.

“And Monsieur le Comte?”

“Yes, Doctor Aubert?”

“I’ve known you since you were a lad. Come see me about that arm once Raoul is out of danger.”

Philippe has the sense to look sheepish.

“Where is Eloise?” Juliette asks as soon as the doctor is gone.

“Looking in on Claire and Jean-Luc, to tell them Raoul is ill but will be better,” Philippe says. “I asked her to hold off telling them about Alexandre’s death until things are sorted, so they won’t have the wrong answer should anyone ask questions, and I think we’ll need some time to sort out _how_ to tell them. Francois took Henri and Estelle to your bedchamber, for a while, I believe.”

“I had to tell Estelle the truth.” Juliette squeezes Christine’s hand. “I…she wanted to help and there was so much happening. I hope it wasn’t the wrong choice.”

Philippe takes Juliette’s free hand. “She’s rather too old now to hide the truth, I think. And she’s steady enough to keep the truth from her little brother and cousins.” He blinks, tears shining in his eyes. “You’ll stay?”

“You couldn’t make me go,” Juliette says. “I should go speak to Francois about everything. You’ll both be all right a little while?”

“Yes,” Christine assures her. “Go. They need you.”

This leaves Philippe and Christine alone.

Christine all but throws herself into her brother-in-law’s arms. He gives a little oof of surprise before his arms go tight around her, and she lets herself, for just a moment, cry into his chest. His waistcoat holds the vague sweet scent of the cigars he smokes in his study, a much more pleasant smell than the cheap cigarettes their friends have at _Le Hanneton_ or around the opera.

“She’ll make it,” he says, the words close in her ear. “She’ll make it. She’s stubborn as hell, and so are you. So am I, for that matter.”

Christine laughs through a sob, worrying her lip as she pulls back.

“And I…” Philippe continues. “Wouldn’t have made it through this without you. We wouldn’t have found her without you. Without you asking for Ismael and Erik’s help. Without you finding that deed. Thank you, _ma chérie_.”

Philippe sounds like Raoul when he speaks endearments—there’s something about the sincerity in it. This makes Christine miss Raoul from just the other side of a door, so she presses Philippe’s hand tight, leading him back through her and Raoul’s sitting room and into their bedchamber. Madeline goes to get Raoul something small to eat, putting a kiss on her hair before she goes. Christine slides off her shoes and climbs onto their bed, dress and all, leaning against the pillows and settling Raoul between her knees. Raoul’s head leans against Christine’s chest with a heaviness, and Philippe pulls up a chair.

“Philippe?” Raoul questions, her words slurred. “You aren’t angry at me?”

“No, ma petite,” Philippe whispers. “Not in the least.”

“We’re going to sit with you and keep you awake,” Christine says, her thumb brushing across Raoul’s cheek. “All right, my love?”

“I’m so tired, Christine.” Raoul’s eyes flutter closed, and she jolts like she knows she’s not supposed to shut them. “I’m so tired.” A pause. A moment. A breath. A piece of Raoul coming out past the drugs. “I’m scared.”

Christine’s steadies herself as a crack runs up the middle of her heart, leaving a pinching, potent pain behind.

“I know,” she answers, the words wispy, tattered things. “I know you are. We’re here. We’re right here. You won’t be alone. Madeline’s getting you something to eat, and I’m sure Juliette will be back soon too.”

Philippe suggests reading something new, putting a kiss on Raoul’s temple before he goes to the library to find something to read, promising, when Christine asks, that he will send Lucien to Meg with a message that they’ve found Raoul. At least now, Christine thinks, little Simone won’t need to worry about retribution from Alexandre, the poor child. She wants to tell Raoul that Alexandre is Simone’s father, doubting that Alexandre let that piece of information slip, but now is not the time. When the door shuts behind Philippe, the two of them are alone for the first time all night.

“Alexandre said you were dead,” Raoul croaks, tugging Christine’s hand toward her chest. “He said you were dead and I swore my heart broke, Christine. I swore it did. But I had to hold on. I knew I had to hold on. What…what happened? You said…you said Simone was safe with Meg?”

“We’ll talk about that when you’re better,” Christine says with a firmness. “I promise. No secrets. And yes, Simone is safe with Meg and Madame and Andre. She was the one who told me Alexandre took you, though I realized it was him a bit before I arrived home to find you gone.”

Raoul jerks. “Eloise! Oh my god, Eloise.” She thrashes in Christine’s grasp. “Is she all right? I need to…”

“Shhh.” Christine puts an arm around Raoul’s waist, keeping her against her chest. “She’s talking with Claire and Jean-Luc. You need to rest.”

“He spent all of Eloise’s money, Christine.” Raoul gasps for air, her excitement worsening an already delicate situation. “The money she inherited. It’s gone. I need to tell Philippe.”

A gasp escapes Christine. That is a great deal of money to have run out. It is not that she’s worried about Eloise—the de Chagnys have plenty, and Philippe will no doubt take care of it, but it does speak to the depths of Alexandre’s depravity. They need to find out more about that, and what, exactly, prompted all of this, but that will have to wait.

“We will tell him when these drugs are out of your system,” Christine tells her, resting a cheek against Raoul’s. “Remember what you said just now about holding on? I need you to do that now. For your siblings. For me.” Tears grate her voice into pieces, but she keeps them back. “For yourself, most of all.”

Raoul nods, and when she speaks again, for a moment, she sounds like herself.

“I knew you would find me, darling. I knew you would.”

Something about the words break Christine open. When they found each other again Raoul dashed in like a knight in shining armor, sweeping her out of the darkness, and part of Christine has never felt able to live up to that, despite the courage she summoned during the lair. It barely felt like courage then, just the only right thing to do—her freedom for Raoul’s life. Keeping Raoul breathing didn’t seem heroic.

And she’s always wanted to be Raoul’s hero, just like Raoul is hers. To Raoul, she already was. She just needed to discover it for herself.

Entrusting another with your secrets, with your vulnerabilities, with your fears and your hopes, laying those fragile things in someone else’s hands, is no small thing. There in the darkness with Alexandre, Raoul gave those things to her, even if they were apart. She trusted Christine to save her and didn’t shame herself for needing to be saved. Quite a difference, from the weeks after Don Juan, when Raoul blamed and blamed and blamed herself, even though she risked her very life.

“I will always come for you,” Christine says, holding Raoul tight. “Always.” 

* * *

“Dammit.” Erik sucks in a breath through his teeth, blood creeping into the crevices of one of his knuckles as the cold wind picks up, biting into his skin.

He sucks on it, Ismael clicking his tongue in reprimand.

“I told you to keep your gloves on.”

“You’re not my mother,” Erik snaps, regretting it in an instant. “I’m sorry. My grip on the shovel isn’t good with the gloves. I think this will do.”

This, as it turns out, was the easy part.

This being burying Jacques’ body.

The Marquis situation was…decidedly more complex.

No one stopped them on their way out of Paris proper, and Sceaux was quiet when they arrived, the early autumn dark giving them cover. Upon finding a a portico on the rather high-up third level, Erik and Ismael set to breaking it before unceremoniously tossing the Marquis’ body over the edge. It would simply look like there was an accident. Like he fell and snapped his neck. At least, that’s the plan they have in mind. Eloise will have to come here in the morning and pretend as though she found her husband’s unmoving form. Truth be told, Erik feels sorry for her. It’s strange, feeling sorry for someone he does not really know.

A breeze whistles through again, lifting dead leaves off the ground, some of them disintegrating entirely.

Not unlike, Erik muses, the eventual fate of the now buried corpse at their feet.

“It seems wrong, to have no funeral rites for him,” Ismael says.

Erik snorts. “He probably would have killed someone if told to by the Marquis. Christine. That girl, what’s her…Simone. Once Raoul is awake, I’m sure we’ll know more about that. He was involved in the scheme, anyway. He knew what he was getting involved with. You’re too kind.”

Ismael looks at him, but Erik speaks before he can say anything.

“Had I died that night of Don Juan, I wouldn’t have expected anyone to pray for me.”

“I think everyone deserves something.” Ismael rubs his chin. “I don’t suppose he’d appreciate me praying the Janazah. I won’t ask if you know any Christian prayers.”

“I know them,” Erik insists. “I just don’t say them because even if there is a God, I doubt he’s listening to me.”

“If? You pretended to be an angel.”

“All right, Daroga.”

Though not the countryside proper, these smaller towns just outside Paris leave room enough between neighbors that no one sees them as they cover the makeshift grave with a few rocks, Ismael does mutter a few words in Farsi as they leave the trees behind.

“We ought to clean up the room where he was keeping Raoul,” Ismael points out. “In case the police want to search around for any sign of foul play.” His eyebrows furrow as they step into the low light of the house—they turned on only a gas lamp or two to avoid notice. “I do wish we could explain all of this to them. To make the situation clear instead of having to hide it all, but I know that won’t do. They’ll blame Raoul or Christine no matter that they are the victims, and I fear the repercussions of that, beyond just the loss of their place at the opera, especially given how the inspector reacted to the broken windows. There’s a reason Christine came to us, after all. I do feel for Raoul’s sister—though perhaps it’s better this way for her. Though better feels like a strange word to use.”

“She won’t have to live under the shadow of her husband being apparently near destitute—in aristocratic terms—while also trying to murder her sister,” Erik says, stepping into the room where the Marquis was keeping Raoul. “So I think that’s a fair assumption. An accident is far more sympathetic. Imagine how high society would treat her, if they knew.”

Ismael busies himself cleaning off the table, sliding a few empty syringes into a bag with a visible shudder. “I will be interested to hear the full story of the Marquis’ motivations,” he says. “When Raoul is well.”

Ismael sounds more confident than Erik feels about that particular situation. What if, after all of this, after all of his efforts, the girl still dies?

Erik tears the sheets and the ratty blanket off the bed, picking up the shackle as well—they’ll just have to take these with them so there’s no evidence here.

“Do you think it will haunt me forever?” Erik asks, before he’s ready. “What I did to them?”

He doesn’t need to say who _they_ is. Ismael already knows.

“I thought…” Erik continues at his friend’s questioning glance. “…I helped Christine. I helped Raoul and I thought…I thought it would make me feel differently than it did. That it would wash away my sins, but all it did was make me see them more clearly.”

“Oh, my friend…” Ismael moves closer, putting a hand on Erik’s arm, and Erik doesn’t pull away. “What you needed to atone for you could not undo or take back. The consequences were not so simple. You seeing your actions at the opera so clearly means you know how serious they were. Atonement is reparation. Atonement is action. And you _took_ action. Remarkably so, from where you were a year ago.” He smiles, and there’s pride in his eyes, and a little sadness, too. Erik isn’t sure he deserves either. “Even as you move forward, the things you did may stay with you. It doesn’t mean you’ve failed. It just means you were sincere in your remorse.” 

Erik’s eyes grow wet again.

Dammit. _Dammit._

“It hurts.” He keeps his eyes trained on the floor, though Ismael does not remove his hand. “It hurts to see it so clearly.”

“Yes,” Ismael says. “I know.”

“You’ve never done something as horrible as I’ve done, Daroga. I’m not sure you do know.”

Ismael is kind enough, honest enough, not to argue that point.

“I let Christine go to give her a chance,” Erik whispers, vulnerability throbbing in his chest. “When this started, I was furious that someone else would try and take that away when I had sacrificed my happiness to make it so. And then I…as it all happened, I realized how selfish that framing was and that I…that I wanted to give Raoul a chance, too. Because I nearly took hers. I changed her. I changed them both. I’ve been desperate to exact Christine’s forgiveness. To free myself. Now I see it is not so simple, and even if she forgives me of her own free will, I may not forgive myself.”

“Well,” Ismael says. “We’ll work on that, shall we? When you’re ready. There’s still time to change, Erik. You’ve already started.”

His words ring with the implication that somehow, by some miracle, he does not intend to leave Erik alone. Whether or not they will remain in Paris is a question, given Erik’s status as a wanted man, though is he so wanted, now, when those who would most want him in prison no longer do? The police, it seems, are not so desperate. Still, he’s not sure if he wants to stay here, where he must be trapped by default, just to be safe. That, however, is for the future, because the present is not yet over.

They go, after that, heading in the darkness back to the de Chagny house and leaving two corpses behind them.

He hopes their plan works.

And in a far cry from that night in the lair, he hopes Raoul de Chagny remains alive. 


	17. I Know You Love the Girl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christine waits through the night, never leaving Raoul's side. Eloise comes face-to-face with grief and betrayal. Erik find the words he wants to say to Raoul, and the two of them might, just maybe, move forward. Raoul and Philippe mend fences, and a de Chagny family secret comes out in the process.

Sweat slips onto Christine’s fingers as she dabs at Raoul’s forehead with a damp cloth.

“Water,” Raoul pleads, sounding, oddly, more lucid than she has in hours. Christine’s not sure if that’s better or worse. “Please, I need some water.”

Juliette starts pouring before Christine can even turn around. Has Juliette been on her feet this entire time? It seems so. Christine takes the glass, tilting it to Raoul’s lips. Raoul gulps the water down, burying her cheek against Christine’s chest.

Philippe looks on, the open book they were reading aloud still in his hand.

Eloise hasn’t come. 

* * *

Raoul vomits.

Everyone in the room holds a collective breath, recalling Doctor Aubert’s warning about her choking, but that, at least, doesn’t come to pass.

Christine holds Raoul’s hair, the two of them having barely made it to the commode. The soup Raoul ate—she, understandably, refused the offered tea—is all lost, but now certainly isn’t the time for more.

“It’s all right,” Christine whispers, thankful for her iron stomach, a thing her father marveled at in her childhood. “It’s all right, my love. I promise.”

Is the promise a lie? No. _No_. She won’t let it be. Raoul has to be all right. She has to be all right after all of this.

Christine won’t lose her now.

Raoul coughs, drawing forth a memory of another day. Another cough. Another life. Gustave Daae’s cough rings in Christine’s head, and she prays to her father, she prays to him as much as she’s ever prayed to God, to keep Raoul with her.

“I…” Raoul flushes. “I’m afraid I got some on my nightdress.”

She’s lucid again. That must be a good sign, musn’t it? There’s no strange laughter, no slurred words. Still, her breathing, while improved, is not what it should be.

“I’ll get you a fresh one,” Christine says. “Wait right here.”

She steps out of the bathroom, finding Philippe gently wiping away Juliette’s tears. Juliette has been holding _Philippe_ together ever since the happenings at the opera, and now he is holding her. There is, Christine thinks, something about seeing Raoul so ill a second time, that’s sent them all to the brink. Though if she makes it through the night, her injuries from this will not take so long to heal.

She doesn’t disturb them, retrieving a new nightdress.

Eloise still doesn’t come. 

* * *

Raoul can’t fight sleep anymore, and Christine can’t keep her awake. Neither Philippe’s reading nor Juliette’s talking is enough to stop Raoul’s eyes from falling closed, and it’s no surprise, really. It doesn’t seem to be fainting, or the coma Doctor Aubert worried about, but real sleep. Still, Christine counts every breath.

_In._

_Out._

_Up._

_Down._

_Rise._

_Fall._

A knock on the door. Francois’ voice.

“How is she? Eloise asked me to come get word, though I was about to come myself. We’re all worried. The children are worried.”

Juliette’s answer.

“Better, we think. Sleeping.”

Philippe’s question.

“She won’t come?”

Francois must shake his head, though Christine can’t stop counting Raoul’s breaths to see it.

The night goes on. 

* * *

Dawn breaks the sky in two.

Paris awakens outside. Carriage wheels rolling against the paving stones. Someone calling out to someone else—an early morning delivery, perhaps. Everyday things. Christine envies the normalcy. She wants her normal back. She wants it _back_.

Philippe insisted Juliette sleep an hour ago, but she would not leave, so she’s dozing in the chaise lounge in the corner. Philippe himself sits with Christine on the bed, having abandoned his chair. Raoul sleeps against Christine’s chest and Christine’s legs are numb from being in the same position for who knows how long, but she won’t move. Not yet. Philippe strokes Raoul’s hairline, singing _Au clair de la lune_ softly in her ear.

Gold creeps along the horizon, a thin pen stroke of light against the black sky.

Raoul’s eyes flutter open.

Voices, downstairs.

Footsteps, coming up.

“Christine?” Raoul croaks, turning her head. “Philippe?”

“We’re here,” Christine says. “We’re right here. How do you feel?”

“Better, I think. Not…wonderful. How long was I asleep?”

“About two hours,” Philippe answers.

“I thought I wasn’t supposed to fall asleep?”

A wry chuckle escapes Philippe’s lips. “There was no preventing it. You seemed less under the influence, so we let you.”

Raoul sits up, and Christine’s numb legs breath a sigh of relief as Raoul rests against the pillows instead, Philippe going back to his chair.

“Alexandre is…” Raoul’s words catch. “…he is dead?”

“He’s dead,” Christine confirms, turning Raoul’s face toward hers with one finger. “He can’t hurt you anymore.”

“You saved me.” Raoul rests her forehead against Christine’s, the skin less alarmingly warm than before. “You saved me. I knew you would.”

Christine makes to protest that it wasn’t just her by any measure, but then Raoul kisses her, and Christine can’t be bothered to care how sweaty and unkempt both of them are, or that her own breath probably tastes like coffee and nothing else. It’s a small, swift kiss, but the eager, earnest touch of Raoul’s lips is so delightfully familiar.

She’s alive. She’s _alive_.

Raoul shares a small smile with Philippe, looking away faster than she normally might. Their previous fight, only a few hours before she was taken, must still be fresh in her mind. Christine hates the idea of Raoul thinking she’d damaged her relationship with Philippe while she was trapped with Alexandre—that horrible man no doubt made her think so.

Juliette rouses, dashing over to the bed and taking Raoul’s sweaty hands, pressing kisses all over.

“My girl,” she whispers. “My sweet girl.”

“I’m all right, Juliette,” Raoul answers, and she is not all right, but Christine is determined she will be. “I’m all right, I promise. I love you.”

“I love you,” Juliette echoes.

The door opens, and Erik and Ismael step inside. Those must have been the footsteps Christine heard.

Eloise remains absent.

Early morning sunlight floods through the window, bleeding through the curtains and onto the carpet. The sky lights up, as if summoning the end of their nightmare.

“Well,” Erik says, when no one else says anything. “You’re alive, I see, Mademoiselle de Chagny. I…” he stumbles over the words. Strange, for him. “Congratulations.”

Then, the sound that brings Christine well and truly back to life after the horror and anxiety of the past few days.

Raoul laughs.

Not the strange, slurred, giddy laugh from last night, but a real one that matches the spirit of the sunlight outside. Raoul meets Erik’s eye across the room, and everyone, Christine very much included, watches them.

“Thank you,” Raoul says, her voice hoarse. “For helping to save my life.”

The words make Erik visibly jump, as if he didn’t expect to hear them somehow, and when he speaks again, Christine suspects there might be tears buried beneath his words.

“You,” he replies, stumbling again as he removes his hat, twisting it in his hands. “Are very welcome.” 

* * *

An hour or so after Juliette brings word that Raoul is awake and doing better, Eloise goes to her sister. An exhausted Juliette asks Ismael and the ex-opera ghost down for some coffee, and Christine is ushered along with them, holding onto Raoul’s hand for a long moment before agreeing. Philippe lingers, asking after the children and shooting a concerned glance back at Raoul before he goes.

Eloise doesn’t pull up a chair, as she normally might. She sits right on the bed with Raoul, who seems to know that she wasn’t here, last night.

“Are Jean-Luc and Claire all right?” Raoul asks, too kind, just yet, to ask why. Eloise always found Raoul impertinent, petulant—at least with her—but she realizes, now, that it was indeed her own treatment of her sister that led to that behavior. Not that Raoul isn’t brash, sometimes, impulsive even, but she is _so_ good-hearted, and Eloise refused to see it, before. She’s not sure when that happened, because she used to delight in playing with Raoul, when Raoul was small. Everything is such a blur, sometimes.

“They’re asleep,” Eloise answers. “I…I haven’t told them yet, about…” she pauses, unable to say what she means yet. “Philippe suggested I wait until we go to…to find the body. In case anyone asks any questions, they can answer truthfully.”

Raoul must have been told about Erik and Ismael staging things and burying the stagehand’s body, because she doesn’t ask questions. What Eloise is going to tell her housekeeper about what happened to her younger brother, she doesn’t yet know.

“Eloise.” A crack runs up the middle of Raoul’s voice, and she reaches for the glass on her table, taking a long draw of water. “If there’s anything I can do for you, for them, I’ll do it.”

Eloise’s lip twinges in protest when she bites on it, too hard. “I rather think you’ve suffered enough because of me, Raoul.”

“Eloise,” Raoul repeats in a whisper that threatens to break Eloise’s heart a second time in as many days. “This isn’t your fault. What happened to me wasn’t your fault. Is that…” a note of curiosity rings in her voice, rather than accusation. “…is that why you didn’t come in, last night? I admit, I was barely cognizant, but I knew you weren’t here.”

Tears brim in Eloise’s eyes, and after last night, she honestly wasn’t certain she had it in her to cry anymore. “It’s foolish, I…I feared I would cause something to…something to happen to you. I wanted to wait until I knew you would pull through and I didn’t know if you would want to see me.”

“Eloise.” Raoul says her name a third time, so gently Eloise can scarcely bear it. “Of course I would want to see you.”

“You didn’t, after what happened at the opera.”

Old wounds. Old frustration in her voice that her sister doesn’t deserve, and yet she says it, anyway.

“That was different.”

A twinge of annoyance in Raoul’s words now, and she doesn’t speak to why she didn’t want to see Eloise then, because they both know.

“Are you all right?” Eloise asks, pivoting back to the matter at hand.

Raoul takes a deep breath, exhaling before she answers. “I do not feel nearly so horrible as last night, though I do not feel marvelous, I admit. Though I think at least the majority of the Morphine has left me, and it wasn’t long enough to cause any withdrawal, I should hope. My stomach and my headache and I am tired, but I will mend, soon enough.”

Eloise thinks this is putting it lightly for someone who nearly died of a drug overdose, someone who currently has two bandages over bloody wounds, a concussion, and a bruise on her face, but she doesn’t argue. However bad Raoul might look now, it does pale in comparison to how she looked that night after the opera. She took months to recover from those injuries, and her lungs still trouble her, sometimes. Yet, somehow, the man who caused those injuries is downstairs. He helped them, and Eloise doesn’t know what to make of it. She’s not sure she ever will.

“I was so worried we would lose you,” Eloise says. “I’m so sorry, Raoul.”

A warm hand covers hers, and Eloise looks up, finding her baby sister smiling at her, despite it all.

“I’m right here,” Raoul assures her. “I’m right here, and I will continue to be.”

“Can you tell me what happened? What…what Alexandre did? What he wanted?”

She asks. She does not demand, and Raoul consents.

She tells Eloise everything. About what he did and where he kept her. How he manipulated Simone, though Eloise already knows about most of that. Raoul talks about what Alexandre wanted and why he blamed her. About the fact that he spent nearly every last franc of Eloise’s inheritance, which in practice became his when they married, though it didn’t truly feel that way until now. Alexandre kept their household expenses, and Eloise never had any reason to question him. Now, she wishes she had.

It is not as if she will be destitute by any means, her brother would not, of course, allow it, but she has grown so used to running her own house, to managing herself, and now she cannot bear the thought of living in the home she shared with Alexandre. Should she move back in with Philippe, though how crowded would that feel, with her children and Raoul and Christine living here? She’s so embarrassed, mortified that she did not know more about her own husband’s spending, but she never needed to, beyond perfunctory questions. She had no reason to suspect him. God, how he fooled her. Still, she swears she knew him once, and not so long ago. He loved her, she’s sure of it.

Isn’t she?

“I know how difficult this must all be to hear,” Raoul says, potentially reading her thoughts. “But he loved you, Eloise. It sounds strange to say, but he did. He did not act as a husband should, which is obviously putting it lightly, but part of what drove him seemed to be not just the money, the anger at me, but at the fear of you not having the life you deserved. That we were stealing you from him. That we didn’t appreciate you. It’s possessive, but he did care, about you and the children. He just…rather lost sight.”

More than a touch of anger resounds in Raoul’s voice, but she’s not lying, because she’s never been terribly good at lying. Raoul, however, doesn’t know of Alexandre’s other betrayal, it seems, and it falls to Eloise to tell her.

“Raoul there is one thing…”

She struggles here, not because she thinks Raoul will have an adverse reaction, but because she’s afraid of her own feelings. Part of her wants to right the wrongs her husband did to Simone, to make sure she’s taken care of, but the other part of her doesn’t want to see the little girl again, because she’s only a reminder of a lie Alexandre told long before any of this started. The two emotions war with each other, and one has not yet come out victorious. She doesn’t suspect him of infidelity during their marriage, but if he was capable of it during their courtship, when she, unlike some of her friends, had saved herself for her wedding night, who is to say he didn’t sleep with other women over the years? It is not, of course, at all uncommon, but she had thought Alexandre different. They didn’t marry for love, exactly, but they did fall in love once they said _I do_. Now, she’s not sure she ever knew him at all.

Raoul’s eyes widen in a terribly earnest way, and it almost makes Eloise cry again. “What’s the matter?”

“Simone is Alexandre’s natural daughter.” She pushes the words out. “She told Christine. I assume Christine was just waiting until you were a bit more yourself to tell you. I don’t suppose there was really an opportunity, last night.”

Raoul’s eyebrows furrow, like something’s clicking in place. “My word. He did act strangely when I brought up Simone. He…he wanted to kill her. Tried to, that night in the opera house. I asked him to think of how he would feel if that was Claire, and he cut me off.” She meets Eloise’s eyes. “I don’t know what shall be done exactly, but I doubt Alexandre’s mother will take care of her, so we must find a way. Yes, we…we must.”

There’s an idea in the words, along with affection and half a formed thought, but Raoul, dreamy-headed as she can sometimes be, doesn’t speak to it, and Eloise doesn’t press. Perhaps her sister isn’t finished thinking it through.

Silence falls between them, and both of them let it lay for a minute or two, until Raoul takes Eloise’s hand back.

“I know things haven’t always been easy between us,” Raoul whispers. “But I love you, Eloise. I am your family. We are all your family, and we will take care of you and the children. And I do hope that the truth of all of this stays covered up, for many reasons, but if anyone is rude to you, you only need to tell me, and I shall put it right.”

A half laugh, half sob bursts out of Eloise, and she squeezes Raoul’s hand. “Going to take them in a dark alley and try out some of your savate on them?”

“I might.”

Philippe comes for her after that, his mouth in a grim frown.

It’s time to go.

Eloise kisses Raoul’s head like she did when her sister was little, and she recalls it used to make her giggle. Christine comes back, and Eloise has no trouble leaving Raoul in her competent care. She has underestimated Christine Daae from the start, and she swears she never will again.

It’s just the two of them in the carriage: Philippe, and herself. They will arrive, find where Ismael and Erik put Alexandre’s body, which they apparently pushed off the portico. They will summon the police, and say Alexandre looking into renovations, with Philippe’s help. They will say he fell when he was examining the portico, which must not have been structurally sound.

In the meantime, she tells her brother everything Raoul told her as they go, and she realizes, fleetingly, that she’s still in her clothes from yesterday, her hair nothing less than a mess. For her, at least. How long will this take? How well will she lie? What will happen if the truth is uncovered? She doesn’t think Raoul would be in trouble—she was the one Alexandre tried to kill—but there is the matter of them taking help from a wanted man, and the matter of the police thinking Raoul and Christine rather insane after the happenings at the opera, even though they did not doubt the ghost’s existence. Perhaps they doubted the story of what happened after Don Juan? That Christine was trying to cover up a bad decision and Raoul was helping her? Eloise has never known, exactly, when an entire audience saw the man make off with Christine.

She remembers her fight with Raoul soon before that fateful performance, the pained words Raoul spoke, how she said there were a thousand tiny things that were different for her. Eloise has never had cause to fear or question the police—her sister, however, though somewhat shielded by their family name, suffers rather a lot of gossip, and, also, judgement by people like the police, that might cause them to take her less seriously, or maybe even harm her. An old memory appears in her head, a thousand memories, of herself at a dinner party or a ball with Alexandre, both of them with drinks as they whispered behind their hands at anyone even slightly out of the ordinary.

She vows she will never do that again.

“That fiend,” Philippe says. “What an astounding amount of money to waste. What his debts are I cannot imagine, but never you worry, Eloise. Perhaps the sale of this wretched house he bought might do the trick to clear it all. Married women should have more control of their money, I’ve always said it. I will set up new accounts for you, I’ll sort it out…I…”

“Philippe…” Eloise clasps her brother’s fingers, cutting off his ramble. “I trust you.”

Her brother smiles at her, squeezing back, and then, not letting go.

They arrive at the strange house Eloise has never seen. They do not step inside yet, because Monsieur Khan and the ghost indicated there was no need, though Philippe does unlock the door, because the police will no doubt need to come in, and it’s cold, this morning. For a while, she will be alone in this place, because Philippe will need to go for the police—the station in is a half mile away. From the outside, it looks like a house Alexandre would purchase. Larger than needed. Architecture that says wealth, that is too much even for her. They go around to the back, and that’s when she sees it.

Her husband’s body. Her husband’s body and a broken portico above, pieces strewn down around his corpse.

And despite everything he did, despite how he broke her heart, despite everything he did to her sister, a real and terrible grief burgeons in her chest. Raoul kept repeating that Alexandre said he was doing this for her. That he loved her, in his own way. She wishes he would have loved her enough, wishes he would have loved their children enough, to tell her the truth, because now he’s gone, her sister is hurt, and…

God, she has to tell her children their father is dead, and she has no idea how, or when, she can tell them the entire truth of his cruelty, when they only knew him as their Papa. He could be grumpy, sometimes, strict, but he was a good father, wasn’t he? It seemed so, to her. It was their relationship, of late, that had started having trouble, but that never seeped down to the children. Perhaps one day, it would have.

How could she have been so blind? How could she not have _seen_?

A scream rips from her throat, louder and more horrible than the one in Philippe’s study last night.

But when she falls, slipping on the grass toward the body of the man she thought she knew, her brother catches her. 

* * *

It’s Raoul who convinces Christine to finally sleep.

As it turns out, the girl’s stubbornness isn’t reserved only for him.

“I will be perfectly all right,” Raoul says, and Erik fights a laugh when she appears to look intimidating. “Doctor Aubert was just here and bid me to rest and keep these warm cloths on my feet and use my inhaler.”

“And to eat.” Christine crosses her arms over her chest, and Juliette, shooting something that might resemble a smirk at Erik, lets the two of them settle things. “Which I should like to point out you have not done.”

“My stomach aches still,” Raoul whines, then rights herself when that doesn’t make Christine relent. “I am not trying to get out of anything, truly it does, and when you and Juliette wake, we can all eat together, even if mine is to be not much more than soup. Does that sound fine? I’m sure Madeline will check on me every other second.”

“Why can’t I sleep here with you?” Christine protests. “Where I, in fact, usually sleep.”

Raoul smiles, a sweet, gentle thing. “Because of the aforementioned situation of Madeline coming in to check on me to certain I don’t fall into any sort of coma. You need some uninterrupted sleep.”

Christine huffs, though her lips twitch like she’s fighting a smile, too. “All right.”

Juliette, her eyes a bit glassy, kisses Raoul’s cheek, and Christine, lingering and loathe to leave, presses her lips to her wife’s warmly and without hesitation. Erik remembers what Christine told him that day at the opera, how for some time after the happenings in the lair, after Don Juan, they feared touching one other. He does like to think upon their intimacy for long—it feels rather an intrusion, and he will not intrude upon them again, even in his own head—but he is glad to see that is not a trouble this time. Not that Marquis was interested in Raoul that way, but still, abuse of any kind might make one hesitant to touch. God only knows what the man put in Raoul’s head, after all.

“Sleep, darling,” Raoul says, the endearment full of such tenderness that it makes a shiver run down Erik’s spine. Ridiculous. He is _ridiculous_.

He bids Christine and Juliette to sleep well, then goes downstairs with Daroga, opting to pace around the sitting room. They must stay at least until the Comte and his sister return, and it may be some time until they do. They received a note from Meg this morning, indicating that she, her mother, Simone and Andre were fine, and would be by as soon as Raoul was able to receive visitors. Erik finds he wishes for Antoinette’s company—she at least, will distract him with something or the other, while Ismael will only wish to speak of the matter at hand.

Ismael, sitting in a chair by the fire, peeks up from the newspaper he’s reading, calm in such a a way that serves to make Erik furious.

“Yes, Daroga?”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You’re looking at me.”

Ismael shakes his head. “A mortal sin, truly. Go. I’ll get some coffee and join you shortly.”

“And where are suggesting I _go_ , Daroga?” Erik growls.

“To speak to Raoul, of course.” Fond frustration cuts into Ismael’s tone. “You want to speak to her alone. So please, go do so. I’ll be there in a bit.”

“You think you know what’s in my head, do you?”

“Yes,” Ismael says casually, getting up to go to the kitchen. “Now go.”

Erik makes a point of grumbling as he goes, but Ismael is not _wrong_ , exactly. He steps through the open door to the suite of rooms, hovering outside the bedchamber. What a strange thing, to have no one in the house watching him, worried that he will kill or hurt Raoul. How strange that he trusts himself to be alone with her. He takes a deep breath, knocking on the door.

“Christine,” Raoul calls out. “You need to sleep.”

“It’s Erik.”

A pause. A _long_ pause.

This was foolish. He should go. Even if he has somewhat repaired things with Christine, that does not mean Raoul de Chagny will want to do the same, even if she thanked him earlier. And he couldn’t blame her, either.

“Come in,” Raoul finally says.

Erik opens the door, finding Raoul still in bed, pouring herself another glass of water. It’s odd, seeing her like this, so vulnerable in nothing more than her nightgown and a thick dressing robe, her long hair messy and shifted to one side, hanging over her right shoulder.

“May I sit?” Erik asks.

Raoul takes a long sip of water, nodding her assent. Erik studies her, in the quick moment he’s able. He looks at the faintest scar around her neck, visible to him for the first time. The one near the back of her cheek is evident too. The one he left with his knife. It’s thin, and it’s faded, but it’s there.

“You sent Christine away to sleep so that your ladies’ maid checking on you would not disturb her, yet you yourself are not asleep,” Erik observes, fingers curling over the arm of the chair. “Why is that?”

“Why did you come, if you thought I would be sleeping?” Raoul shoots back, though the barb is half-hearted. “I didn’t think you would want to take on the role of nursemaid.”

Erik’s bites his lip in an attempt to hide a smile. “Fair point.”

Another long pause as Raoul takes another sip of water, looking out the window as if she wishes she could pull the light closer.

“I didn’t know what day it was, when Alexandre had me,” she says softly, almost to herself. “I could see when it was day and night, but I never knew the time really, and I didn’t know how long I’d been asleep whenever the Morphine made me pass out. Each time I awoke I had to then remember exactly where I was and what was happening, so I am a bit afraid to sleep, even if it’s safe. And Doctor Aubert told me to do so in short stretches, today, to mind the concussion and any remaining drugs, besides.” She looks at him, and there’s a touch of a challenge in it. “At least when you decided to kill me, it wasn’t drawn out over days.”

Erik drums his fingers on his leg, forcing himself to hold Raoul’s gaze. “Hmm. That’s being a little overly generous to me, I think. I mentally tortured you for rather a long time. I just didn’t try to kill you until the end. Until I decided it was neccessary.”

“An honest man,” Raoul says. Bitterness drips into the cracks between her words, and it doesn’t suit her, though Erik thinks she won’t let it take hold. There’s fondness too, perhaps. Or maybe he’s imagining it. “I can appreciate that.”

She doesn’t say anything else, and Erik isn’t sure if he should stay. He isn’t sure what he wants to say, even, only that he felt compelled to say _something_.

“Would you like me to go?”

“No.” She shakes her head. “Apologies, I’m only tired.”

Erik quirks an eyebrow. “I imagine so, yes. “

“Thank you,” Raoul continues. “For saving my life. For…doing what you had to, with Alexandre.”

“I’ve already said not to thank me.”

“Is it so terrible to thank you?”

“Is it so _terrible_ to listen?”

Irritation creeps across Erik’s skin, an irritation Raoul doesn’t deserve, so he clears his throat, unclenching his hand and making himself look at her.

“I’m sorry. It’s only that helping is what was owed, after…everything.”

Raoul shifts beneath her bedcovers, a question glimmering in her eyes. “What was owed to Christine?”

“Yes, of course,” Erik says clearly. “But also to…” his lowers his voice, the words a near mutter. “But also to you.”

“Well, Monsieur Opera ghost…” Raoul claps a hand to her chest, appearing what he might call gleeful despite the paleness of her face and the purple smudges beneath her eyes. “You are full of surprises.”

“And you are impossible,” Erik growls. “Stop teasing me, girl.”

“I know. And no.”

The sun rises higher in the sky as Erik slumps in his chair, rolling his eyes.

“You came up here all on your own,” Raoul argues.

“God only knows why. Christine is not so incorrigible.”

Nothing short of a grin slides onto Raoul’s face. “I always say she is my better half.”

A cough interrupts whatever she might have said next, and she gestures at the glass contraption sitting on her table. Erik hands it over, and she seems able to use it without his assistance. She takes a deep breath once she’s done, red creeping into her cheeks.

“Do you really have so much trouble with your lungs?” he asks, refusing to avoid the question even though it makes him uncomfortable.

“Mostly when it’s colder out,” Raoul tells him. “I do much better in the warmer months. Doctor Aubert said they’ll be irritated from the cold room Alexandre had me in, and the drugs, of course. It should dissipate soon.”

Erik realizes that Daroga has not appeared with the coffee as promised, suspecting that his friend lied about his intentions, planning on leaving him alone with Raoul, the scoundrel.

Something else on Raoul’s table draws Erik’s attention, and for the moment, he would rather ask about that than the nebulous topic of what he came to say _. I’m sorry? You’re a good person? You didn’t deserve what happened to you?_ Something like that.

Though of course, the matter of what she didn’t deserve falls to more than just the the Marquis.

“Are those your compositions?” he asks, pointing to the pile of papers.

He never took Christine’s protestations that Raoul loved music seriously, until these past few weeks, but the care she’s shown the opera, the way she played the violin the other night…she is a musician, whether he wanted to see it or not. She wasn’t interested in being center stage, but that didn’t make her passion for it less.

He does, he supposes, have more than one thing in common with Raoul de Chagny—composing, and a love for Christine. That was all he was, for a time, and yet he was blind to any similarity between them, even the most obvious one.

“Oh,” Raoul says, her eyes flicking to them and then back to Erik.” Yes. They’re not complete, at the moment. Well, two are, just little songs. The others are more like the half-remembered results of my mind wandering. I got busy with the opera, but I hope to return to them soon.”

There’s something young in her voice, something so earnest and full of dreams, that it makes Erik’s heart fully unlock.

She sounds like Christine.

Erik takes a deep breath, he glances at the fresh red roses on Raoul’s table, and the world he wants to say finally come to him.

“You didn’t deserve what that wretch did to you,” he begins, and Raoul jolts before settling back against the pillows. “You didn’t deserve what I did to you.” Those words are not much more than a whisper. “When I first saw you, I thought you’d charmed Christine into something empty, and now I see that you earned her love by being who you are—a far better person than me. And I know you love her in return. It is clear to me now just how much. I thought perhaps a young man would come along one day that I could easily put off. I didn’t ever account for you.”

Raoul’s quiet for a long moment, and Erik spies tears in her eyes. Lord, he doesn’t know what to do if she cries. He doesn’t know what to do when _he_ cries.

“I regret taunting you for the things society will not allow you to have,” Erik continues when the silence remains. “I, of all people, should not have done that. Not after what society has done to me.”

“I’m sorry they did,” Raoul says, and the sincerity breaks Erik’s heart as much as Christine’s kiss did that night in the lair. “Your music truly is lovely—though I must say that I prefer that recent piece you wrote to Don Juan.”

“I think I prefer it too,” Erik mumbles, clearing his throat. He doesn’t care to think on the violations within Don Juan, and what they did to Christine. He’s done rather a lot of thinking on them already, and nothing less than shame floods through him at the mere thought. “Though nothing gave me the right to treat either of you as I did.”

“No,” Raoul whispers, a shadow passing across her face. “That’s true.”

Silence again, and the words tangle up in Erik’s mind. Raoul manages to speak again, lending him a moment, and another line of conversation.

“I feel as if I rather manage to attract the hatred of men so often that two of them have attempted to kill me.” She laughs, but the laugh is a lie. “Do you…” The bedcovers bunch as she curls her fingers around them, looking up at him. “Did you hate me so?”

The world falls quiet around Erik. It shifts beneath his feet. It shifts, and he finds himself wanting to soothe his ex-enemy’s fears. He decided to hate her for taking Christine without knowing a thing about her, and that was it. She never wanted to _be_ his enemy, until he started hurting people, until he forced her to save herself and Christine both from him. He created his own nemesis out of a young woman who fell in love. An urge to protect her rises in his chest, and if he’s being honest, he felt it when they found her in the opera, too, nearly overdosed on Morphine. Until that moment, he’d never really considered that Raoul de Chagny might need protecting, with her love of sword canes and street martial arts.

But she needed protecting from him, didn’t she? 

“I would have hated anyone who I thought would take Christine from me,” he admits. “I found things about you to hate, of course, but I was telling myself a story, justifying what I was doing. It certainly wasn’t your fault.” He softens, hardly recognizing himself. “It wasn’t your fault that your brother-in-law hated you, either. He dug his own grave. Rather literally, I suppose.”

Raoul gives a soft snort of a dark laugh, and she’s still focused on him, but more intently than before.

“I don’t think…” she blinks, letting the tears Erik saw earlier fall. “I don’t think what you did will ever leave me. I know that night and what came before it will always haunt me. I won’t forget it but I….you helped save my life, tonight. It is not my place to forgive you for what you did to Christine, but I will, now, consider things between you and I even.”

Erik bristles.

“You don’t owe me your forgiveness.”

Raoul’s eyes go wide, and she seems even younger than she is as result even as anger ties tight around her words. “I’m not saying that out of some sense of duty. I never thought I’d say those words to you, Erik. I hated you. I was terrified of you. Don’t you dare accuse me of saying those words lightly.”

“All right,” Erik says chastened at her use of his name. She usually avoids addressing him by anything. “All right. I see you are a woman of your word.”

Raoul crosses her arms over her chest. “I am.”

“You also need to sleep. I’ll stay, to make sure your breathing doesn’t slow down, until someone else returns.”

She eyes him but she does acquiesce, and she’s asleep minutes later. Daroga does _not_ appear, but Erik stays, even after the ladies’ maid, as predicted, comes in to see about Raoul, though Raoul falls back into slumber quickly. He stays, and he makes sure Raoul keeps breathing.

Oh, the irony.

An hour passes, and Christine returns.

“You didn’t sleep long enough,” Erik grumbles upon seeing her. “It’s only been an hour.”

“I am unused to sleeping without Raoul,” Christine argues, unbothered by his snipe.

“Madeline has already been in to wake Raoul as instructed. I’m sure she’ll be back again. That was why you were meant to go into another room.”

Christine ignores him, crawling into bed beside Raoul, and Erik considers how entirely inappropriate it is for him to be here by societal standards, but he still can’t make himself move, and he has not given much mind to what society wants for quite some time, besides.

“We only have to do that until this evening, and then I’ll sleep normally. I’d rather be here.”

“Stubborn girl,” he says softly. Fondly.

A smile graces her face, beautiful as ever, and yet he thinks that he is capable of loving her in the way she wants, rather than what he seeks. He’s not terribly sure what will happen, after all of this, how much he’ll even see her, but he’ll love her the way she wants in the time remaining to him.

He’ll be the teacher, the father, she thought he was.

Or, at the very least, a rather grumpy uncle. That’s probably closer to the mark.

“Are you staying?” she asks.

“Do you want me to go?”

“Not if you want to stay.”

He does stay, and she watches him from her place next to Raoul.

“Go to sleep, Christine.”

He said those words to her before, when she was younger and he was deceiving her, but he says them now with a grouchy sweetness, and she falls asleep soon after. Another half hour passes, and Madeline comes in and out again, though she doesn’t wake Raoul when she sees her breathing close to normally.

Erik remains. He remains, and he watches over the two young women like the angel he once pretended to be.

* * *

It’s later evening before Raoul and Philippe have a moment alone. He did not return with Eloise until nearly supper—which Raoul took from bed—after having to sort things with the police, who did not seem to suspect anything untoward, for now. Eloise had to tell the children that their father was dead, and Raoul heard them crying from down the hall, wishing she could run to them. She won’t soon forget that sound, because she knows how it feels to lose a father. She was, after all, only a year older than Claire when her own died. How on earth they’ll ever tell Claire and Jean-Luc the whole truth she doesn’t know. The idea of them knowing how terrible he was is too much to bear, at the moment. Estelle knows, of course, but she has been told to keep the truth from her brother and cousins. For now, there must be secrets, much as Raoul hates it—the children are too young for the details.

Erik and Ismael finally went home upon Philippe’s return, promising to come and visit after some rest, and if they need to assist with anything. It is a marvel, really, how easily the police listened to Philippe this time, how easily they listened to Eloise when they hated Raoul so. She does not enjoy this lie, and she does not know how they will handle things at the opera to reassure everyone that the new ghost is gone, but for now, she focuses on her beloved brother as he steps through the door. Christine went to help Juliette and Francois with the children while Eloise stopped at her home to pack some things and give word to the servants.

Right now, most of what Raoul can think of is her last moment with Philippe. How they shouted. The things they said that they can’t take back. They’ve fought before, but they haven’t fought like _that_ , and as she lay there, cold and trapped in Alexandre’s house, a nasty voice spoke in the back of her head. The same voice that told her she was weak, after the lair.

_You cannot mend things with Philippe._

The look on Philippe’s face, however, tells a different story.

“ _Ma petite_ ,” he says as he sits down on the bed rather than the chair, and she has a faint memory of him doing the same while she was half delirious, his thumb stroking at her hairline. “How are you?”

“Tired,” she says, smiling when he picks up her hand and kisses it like she might be the most precious thing in the world. “How is your arm?”

“Oh.” He waves the concern off. “Just aches a bit, no trouble.”

“Christine said you saved her life.”

“It wasn’t that serious.”

“She says it was.” Raoul adjusts under the covers, keeping hold of her brother’s hand. “I’m sorry trying to save me put you in such danger.”

“I would have done anything to save you, or Christine.” Philippe’s solemn, grave, and sorry, too, she can tell. Sorry for the fight like she is. Sorry for summoning that investigator. “I couldn’t, before, at the opera, I mean. It’s haunted me ever since.”

“Philippe…”

He raises his free hand, and she lets him continue.

“I let it haunt me to the point of near madness,” he admits. “You and Juliette and Christine all made me see that. But I am glad that this time, even if I couldn’t stop Alexandre from taking you, that I could play a part in getting you back. I was trying so hard to protect you that I trapped you in the place where he was able to get to you. I suppose I didn’t think anyone would invade our home, but then, I didn’t know the culprit would be our brother-in-law.” 

Everything that happened with Alexandre hurts like an open wound, but there will be lots of time to discuss that, and Raoul honestly isn’t certain she’s ready to, besides. She’s already recounted a great deal of it to Christine and Eloise and also Juliette, and each word left an ache behind. She almost died last night. Again. She just wants to fix things with her brother, and make sure they take care of Eloise and the children. Alexandre, and his selfishness, she will handle later. After Erik, she constantly looked behind her for shadows. Signs. Danger. She did not want Alexandre to die—though, it does, in the end, make things easier—but she cannot say she isn’t relieved about not having to wait, constantly, for her nightmare to return in person. The nightmares themselves are nasty enough. And now, she thinks to herself with a strange, inward smile, that she won’t have to worry about Erik trailing her anymore, either.

“Did you find the ransom money Alexandre took?”

“We did,” Philippe tells her. “But it would have been all right if we did not. I will probably set it up as something for Eloise to start, so it can used for another good, and she won’t have to ask me for an allowance, or the like. I want her to feel as independent as possible.” He pauses here, apparently thinking of something. “I’m sorry that I treated you like a child. You aren’t one.”

These words, in particular, wound Raoul, because the thing she regrets saying most, she didn’t say within the confines of Philippe’s office, when they were alone. She said it in front of everyone.

“I’m sorry about…” she takes a deep breath. “…about what I said, that night. About not being your child. I know I am not…exactly, but you and Juliette were my parents, really. And I didn’t mean that. I really didn’t, Philippe. Please believe me.”

A little bit of that old panic wells up in her chest, though not with as much ferocity as before. The gentleness of Philippe’s next word eases it, and she relaxes against the pillows again.

“I do believe you,” he says, tucking a strand of her messy, sweaty hair behind her ear. “We can both get quite heated when we argue, hmm?”

“I swear never to argue with you again.”

Philippe chuckles, giving her a look. “I think that’s a bit too much of a promise to keep. We are, after all, made of the same stubborn cloth.”

Philippe slips his arm around her shoulders and she tucks her head against him. She’s always been so worried about proving she can take care of her own business that she hesitates before asking for help from her brother. The moment with Alexandre, the moment where she was determined to hang on for her own sake, to trust the people that she loved to come for her, that she was worth what they might risk to do so, comes back to her. She’s not sure where along the line she stopped believing that her own feelings, her own safety, mattered less than everyone else’s—maybe in the tumult of the opera, where saving Christine became everything, even though Christine never asked her to stop caring about herself. Christine would never ask that. Perhaps too, it was the constant, low-level drumbeat of the world telling her she was lesser than. Raoul’s never hated herself, but somewhere along the line, she stopped taking care of her own heart.

She vows never to let that sweep her up again.

“What you’ve said before,” Raoul begins, the scent of Philippe cigars woven into the fabric of his jacket—he must have smoked one recently. “About me blaming myself for what happened at the opera, how it wasn’t my fault…I think finally, with Alexandre, I realized it wasn’t. Or at least I vowed to make myself remember that what I went through, and the way it changed me, didn’t make me weak. Something hearing the hateful words out of his mouth made me see it more clearly than I could before.”

“You are the furthest thing from weak, my dearest girl.”

The way he says _dearest girl_ makes tears spring to Raoul’s eyes again, and they sit together for a while, mending the things Raoul feared she could not mend, a few days ago, given to dark thoughts she realizes now were entirely unfounded. Anxieties are tricky things, telling lies in your own head.

A look passes across Philippe’s face, a dim smile that Raoul’s seen before—usually when he’s thinking of their mother—and he pulls a locket out of his pocket.

“This was our mother’s.” He flicks the golden cover open, revealing two miniatures a bit like the one of Gustave Christine keeps on her table beside the bed. “And then our father’s.”

“I’ve not seen that before,” Raoul answers, before faint, faded memory appears like a half-done painting. “Wait…did Pere wear that?”

Philippe nods. “Pere used to wear it beneath his shirt after she died. I kept it, after we lost him.”

Raoul stares at the little portraits inside: her father, and her mother. The first is familiar. Philibert de Chagny looks stern, a smile hiding somewhere at the corner of his mouth, his hair less gray than when Raoul knew him. She thinks that she never new the best version of her father, that he was perhaps stricter than she realized, at least with Philippe, who seems to carry a determination to behave differently in ways he does not always discuss with her. Her father was a shadow by the time she was born, looking at her and seeing the wife he lost. One moment he would put her on his knee, trying to make her laugh. The next, he was behind the locked door of his study.

The portrait of her mother is like a memory that isn’t hers, but one she instead inherited from her siblings and the family paintings. Clara de Chagny looks more like her and Juliette more than Philippe or Eloise, who resemble their father more closely. Her eyes are Juliette’s, but her hair is Raoul’s—impossibly straight and sandy gold, with the same narrowness of face.

“I don’t remember this being a locket,” Raoul says.

“Pere only opened it when he was alone, I think.” Philippe’s wistful, Raoul’s head still resting against him, and she might be a child again. She might be a fourteen, confessing her feelings for other girls with him when she could no longer deny the truth of them. “But I looked at it a great deal, when Maman wore it.”

Questions flutter around Raoul’s mind. Why is he showing her this now? But he seems to have a reason, so she doesn’t press.

“I think….” Philippe hesitates here. “Our mother loved Pere. I do know that.”

“I know.” Raoul doesn’t add anything else, sensing something in her brother’s voice.

“I think,” Philippe repeats. “Well there was a friend of Maman’s at her funeral, a childhood friend who did not make her way to Paris much, so I had only met her a few times, and the way she seemed to grieve, the way she lingered… I noticed it. And then…” he stops here, the words strung tight like he thinks he’s revealing a secret he shouldn’t divulge. Something private. “Juliette and I found some letters of Maman’s, after Pere died. Things hidden away when we were sorting through some old trunks in the country house in Chagny. Letters from that same friend, Adrianna. Love letters. At least, they seemed to be.”

Something fills Raoul’s chest. Something warm. A connection with the mother she could never quite grasp, like something she knew was missing, but couldn’t name. Philippe was always saying _you look like her_ , in a tone indicating something else. These things are not genetic, of course, but it does speak to the fact that there are more people like her in the world than others think, even in just one family. Even in a family like theirs.

“Why didn’t you or Juliette tell me?”

Raoul asks the question gently, because she feels no need to accuse. These were private letters, after all, her mother’s own business.

“It seemed like a private thing we accidentally stumbled across,” Philippe says, echoing her own thoughts. “But now, after everything…I don’t know. I knew you always wished you could have known her, and part of me always wanted to tell you, and now I feel compelled to. Finding those letters I think were part of what made me want to ensure your happiness, whatever the world might say or think. To know that our mother loved someone once, and had to keep it a secret, however the relationship may have ended. I wanted you to be free to be with who you wished.”

Raoul sits up, tears spilling out as her brother cradles her cheek in his hand. “There will always be some level of secrecy about your life, I know, but not in this house. Not with us. And after Alexandre, the things I imagine he must have said to you, after the way I made you feel, I wanted you to know it was never because I felt you were a burden. That your love for Christine was a burden. I just wanted to keep you safe. Both of you.”

“I know.” Raoul almost chokes on the words. “I know, Philippe. Thank you.”

She takes a moment to gather herself before glancing up at her brother. This is so much to take in, and she needs time before she can discuss it further. “I am glad, at least, that you and Erik managed not to kill one another.”

Philippe rolls his eyes, pressing a kiss to her hair. “It was a near thing,” he grumbles.

Christine returns a few minutes later, and Raoul realizes it has only been just over twenty-four hours since she was rescued from Alexandre’s grasp. Her breathing has mostly returned to normal, though her lungs ache, and the slash from the knife wound stings rather nastily. A heavy, pulsing throb courses through her body. In her muscles. Against her bones. Everywhere. Her stomach hurts, too, a queasiness that won’t dissipate—a product, apparently, of the Morphine. She does not feel as horrible as after the lair, but she decidedly does not feel well.

She is exhausted.

Christine sits on the bed with a brush in hand, no doubt to try and untangle some of the knots from Raoul’s dirty hair. She longs to wash it, to bathe generally, but she is too weak, at the moment.

“Might I have a kiss?” Raoul asks.

Christine smiles, and that smile spills into the kiss, her lips meeting Raoul’s with warm, tender eagerness.

Raoul will never, ever stop being in love with Christine Daae.

Christine brushes through Raoul’s hair, and Raoul tells her what she just learned. They’ve shared it since the beginning, this longing to know their mothers, Raoul’s gone at birth, and Christine’s gone when she was barely six.

“What a wonderful thing to know,” Christine muses, finishing off plaiting Raoul’s hair. “In the midst of all of this.”

Raoul agrees, and once Madeline comes, helping Christine ready for bed—and tutting when Raoul says she can do it—they finally put out the lamps. Then it’s just the two of them in the dark, laying face to face with their hands lazily intertwined. This is what Raoul longed for, during those cold, dark, frightening nights at Alexandre’s.

“There’s more people like us in the world than we even know,” Christine says, a kind of awe in her voice. “Whatever that wretched Alexandre might have said. It’s none of his business.”

She purses her lips, and even though Raoul can’t make out the entire expression, she laughs, some of the tension ebbing away.

“What?” Christine asks. “Why are you laughing?”

“I only love you.” Raoul buries her face against Christine’s neck. “I love you so much, and I’m so glad I’m here to tell you that.”

Christine sniffs, her words wavering as she holds Raoul close.

“I am too,” Christine finally says, her breath warm against Raoul’s skin. “And I love you too. I always will.”


	18. The Resurrection of Lazarus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The de Chagnys bury Alexandre, holding tight to the truth of what really happened. Eloise grieves the loss of the husband she thought she knew, and Raoul finally lets herself feel the pain of what Alexandre put her through, while Philippe and Juliette remain determined to help their sisters. Erik makes progress, learning more about the tricky business of atonement and forgiveness.
> 
> Through it all, Christine and Raoul heal together, and make a decision that will change their lives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all! Apologies for the longer than usual wait for an update. My cat has been sick and it has been taking up almost all of my energy. This chapter was sitting written, and I just hadn't had a chance to revise it, but I finally managed. I hope you enjoy!

“So, Erik _killed_ Alexandre?” Meg whispers conspiratorially in Christine’s ear. “To save Raoul? Maman is not surprised she says, but _I_ am surprised. Even if there’s been a truce these past weeks, taking that step is…” she blows a stray strand of fair hair from her eyes as she leans back in her chair. “Words do escape me. And as you know, I rarely lack them.”

They’re a few feet away from Raoul and Simone, who sit on on the sofa in the smaller downstairs parlor, which stays warmer than the main sitting room. The crackling of the fire drowns out their words, and Madame has left for the kitchen, declaring that they all looked as if they needed something to eat. Old annoyances at her former ballet mistress still poke and prod at Christine, annoyance at the lies she told, and the lies she told Meg, in particular, but she’s putting them behind her now, after everything, some of the old warmth returning. She’s trying to follow Meg’s lead, after all, and Meg, even-tempered as she is, has seen fit to forgive her mother.

“It is hard to digest,” Christine agrees, taking Meg’s hand in her own, her friend’s new engagement ring glimmering in the firelight. “I’m so glad you’re here. I missed you every moment, but it was best you were safe with Simone. Thank you for taking care of her.”

Meg smiles, easy and bright. “I’m just glad you all got out alive. Aside from Alexandre, of course.” She lowers her voice out of, Christine supposes, respect for Eloise. “Is there to be a funeral for him? Given…everything?”

A peal of laughter from Simone draws Christine’s attention, and she watches Raoul and the little girl, her heart full. Simone came in the door this morning looking rather pallid, her broken arm still in its sling. She went right to Raoul, her gaze trapped on the floor.

_I’m so sorry Mademoiselle de Chagny_ , she said, tears welling in her eyes _. I never knew he was out to hurt you so much, just to scare you a little, and I didn’t know how to get away from him and keep my Maman alive. If you don’t want to see me…_

Raoul crouched down with a bitten back noise of discontent—she is still sore from her ordeal and won’t be entirely well for another week and change—so she could be on Simone’s level.

_Of course I want to see you_ , she replied. _I was so very worried about you while I was trapped with Alexandre. I didn’t want him to be able to hurt you again. Nothing was your fault. And…_ she smiled with a gentle grin that made Christine fall in love with her all over again _. I’m quite sure I told you to call me Raoul._

Meg catches her looking, though she doesn’t speak to it, yet, feigning interest at the stack of cards from friends of Raoul’s who only know she’s ill, and that Alexandre is dead. Celine’s letter rests atop the others, and Christine could guess from reading it that she knew Alexandre was the culprit behind Raoul’s illness—given she knew about the new ghost—but she didn’t prod for details. They can’t tell anyone else, besides, and risk incriminating them. Or risk themselves if the information landed in the wrong hands accidentally.

“There must be a funeral,” Christine finally says. “And we must attend, to ward off any suspicion. It’s the day after tomorrow.”

She glances at Raoul again, Raoul who looks pale still, who looks as though she has been ill, and hopes they can cover up the wounds with long sleeves and coats and such. It is not so strange to be sick in winter, after all.

“You must _go_?” Meg exclaims, causing Raoul and Simone to look over, her voice going higher, eyes wide. “Christine…” she grows softer. “…he tried to _kill_ Raoul. From your story about what happened when you dropped off the ransom, he wouldn’t have minded killing you and Philippe, either. He tried to kill Simone.”

“I know.” A chill shoots down Christine’s spine at the prospect of stepping into a church and wishing Alexandre anything close to well. As generous as she is, he can spend eternity with Satan, for all she cares. “But Eloise and the children need us, and it would be suspect if we didn’t attend. The police don’t seem to sense that anything was off, but they might, if word gets out that Raoul and I weren’t there—you know how people talk. We’re making it a small affair.”

Meg raises both eyebrows. “Can _anything_ be small with the de Chagny family?”

“Hmm,” Christine agrees. “The funeral itself will be, at least, though whether people will invite themselves over after the graveside service is another matter. The nosiness of high society leaves something to be desired.”

“The opera is nosy as well,” Meg points out.

Christine laughs, pressing Meg’s hand before letting go. “True. But in a less conniving way. Hopefully that will prove true when rehearsals begin at the end of next week. When the ghost doesn’t reappear, with any luck the talk will die down. We hate it, but telling the truth of it all leaves too many people with the knowledge of what happened. And we can’t tell them about Erik’s involvement either. It’s too complicated.”

“You’ve put Carlotta, Piangi, and Andre to the work of telling people we’re set to return?” Meg asks.

“Yes. And to tell them we haven’t heard anything further from the ghost and want to begin again so we can open Faust by the new year. The three of them know the truth, of course, but we don’t want anyone else knowing.”

“We stopped at the opera on our way over,” Meg adds, twirling a strand of hair around her finger. “They’re nearly done repairing the damage.” She winks. “Another surprise from Erik. Strange man.”

“Very strange,”

Christine was none too shocked to find Erik of all people watching over a sleeping Raoul two days ago. If someone had told her that would happen as she rowed the little boat away from the underground lair after Don Juan with a bleeding, dying Raoul at her feet, she couldn’t have fathomed it.

Needless to say, these past few weeks have certainly altered some things she thought could never be altered, not because she thought Erik incapable of kindness, but because she felt him too stubborn to attempt it where Raoul was concerned, and never expected to see him again, besides. And feared if she did, it would be for nothing good.

She glances back toward the sofa, warmth filling her up to the brim when Raoul touches the end of Simone’s nose with a smile.

“You know,” Meg says slyly. “You did used to speak of being a mother.”

Christne turns back around, tilting her head. “Meg Giry, what are you up to?”

“I’m not up to anything. But you keep looking at Raoul and Simone with a glint in your eye.”

“There’s no glint.”

“There is a _glint_ , Christine Daae.”

Christine huffs—she isn’t terribly mysterious is she? She’ll have to work on that.

“I did think of it, before,” she admits. “I think I should like it, but being with Raoul outweighed my desire for motherhood. I…” she bites her lip. “I don’t know. I see them together, and Raoul is so good with her, and she’s so dear, and she needs somewhere to go. We all want to make sure she is taken care of but I…well I wonder if she ought to stay with us. I don’t know what the particulars would be.”

Another smile slides onto Meg’s face as she leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “Have you talked to Raoul about it?”

Christine brushes her perspiring hand on the skirts of her yellow morning dress. “No. Though I wonder if she may be wondering the same. To think, that Alexandre could shove his own little girl aside that way…try to kill her. It’s horrifying. And I know what it’s like, to be alone in the world.”

Madame Giry’s return cuts off any further contemplation, and she has Juliette and Estelle with her, who have barely been to their own home since Raoul was rescued. The smell of fresh coffee and croissants soaks into the air, and Christine finds her way to Raoul’s side.

“Everything all right?” Raoul asks, reaching for Christine’s hand and kissing it.

“Perfectly.”

She keeps Raoul’s hand, her thumb brushing back and forth in the hopes of warming the cool skin. She had nightmares last night, nightmares of Raoul not breathing, her hands stiff and ice cold.

But Raoul is alive. Raoul is alive, and now, hopefully, no ghost—or any impersonator—will endanger that. One is in a charming flat on the Rue de Rivoli, no doubt playing the piano as his friend looks on.

And the other, the one they never saw coming, will soon be in the ground. 

* * *

It rains the morning of Alexandre’s funeral.

It’s a steady drizzle, icy and bone-cold, and nothing, Raoul thinks, could be more fitting to the mood of the de Chagny house, at the moment. Children grieving the loss of their father. Children necessarily lied to about their father, for now. A grieving sister. It will pass, she knows, there is gold on the horizon, but they are all wounded. Wounded by one of their own.

Raoul slides on her favorite dark blue tweed overcoat, noting, with a smile, a floral scent entwined deep into the fabric. Christine must have worn it when she was gone. Her cut shoulder twinges as she buttons the coat over her all-black clothing. She does not care for the tradition—it only adds to the terrible somberness of the day. Christine comes over in her black dress of poplin and velvet with one of Raoul’s scarves in hand, taken from Madeline.

“It’s quite chilly out,” she says, wrapping it snug around Raoul’s neck, careful, as she always is, not to make it too tight. Erik has changed, but the scars he left that night still remain, seen and unseen. “Did you use your inhaler?”

“Yes, darling.”

“Are you feeling all right?”

Raoul wonders how to answer the question. She is sore. She is tired. She feels weak on her feet but better than the day before. What does one say to their beloved as they head to the funeral of the man who tried to kill them?

“I’ll make it through.” Raoul decides upon that, taking Christine’s hand and pressing a kiss to it. “We should go.”

“You do everything Christine says now Raoul, do you hear me?” Madeline wags her finger in Raoul’s direction, an amusing gesture for someone not quite five and thirty.

“I will, Madeline. I promise.”

Raoul sweeps toward her ladies’ maid, kissing her cheek before going downstairs to join her siblings. A pall hangs in the air already, thick and unrelenting. They’re the last ones down, and it says something that no one was calling up for her to hurry. Francois has Juliette’s hand tight in his, Estelle and Henri practically glued to their parents’ sides, and Raoul is grateful for her brother-in-law, and how much he loves her sister. That, she’s never had to doubt. She refuses to allow Alexandre to make her question the people she loves. She won’t do it. A pale, dry-eyed Eloise has Jean-Luc in her arms, with Philippe at her side. He seemed torn, this morning, about who needed him more, but he seemed to trust that Christine could take care of her, and that small thing, that change, does lift Raoul’s spirit. It was not that he didn’t trust Christine before, but he blamed himself for everything that happened at the opera, and now Raoul hopes that he can move forward from that. That they all can.

“Tante Raoul!” Claire exclaims, rushing over to her and not heeding Eloise’s gentle chiding.

Raoul winces a little as she picks her niece up, her arms trembling a bit from exhaustion, but she’s strong enough to do it. Claire rests her tear-streaked face against Raoul’s shoulder, sniffling against the fabric of her coat.

“I’m here, _ma petite_ ,” Raoul whispers, because she will not say it’s all right when it is not. “I promise I’m here. I’ll read to you later, if you’re feeling up to it.” She shoots Estelle a look, her oldest niece full of concern. “And we’ll have Estelle help, I’ve taught her some of my voices.”

Claire pulls back, wiping her nose and nodding. “Are you still ill? You seemed ever so sick.”

A pain shoots up through the center of Raoul’s heart, sharp and stabbing. She remembers invoking Claire’s name to Alexandre, the way he told her to keep Claire’s name out of her mouth, and she realizes she hasn’t gotten to spend as much time with Claire and Jean-Luc as she has Estelle and Henri. She resolves to change things now, wondering how much of that was not just her frequent disagreements with Eloise, who always brought the children even when she and Raoul argued, but Alexandre himself.

Simone’s face appears before her. She’s staying with Meg and Madame until all of this has passed, though Philippe has said it should fall to them to make certain the little girl is permanently taken care of, as he doesn’t trust Alexandre’s family to do so. What that means none of them are sure yet, but Raoul thinks that maybe she might…she knows what it is to be an orphan, after all, though she of course, always had her siblings, and monetary safety. Still, she knows. Christine knows.

Well. There’s time to think of that later. She must get through today first. She must get through the funeral of her would-be murderer.

“I’m on the mend, never you worry,” Raoul promises. “Christine has been taking excellent care of me.”

Claire smiles at Christine in turn, putting a kiss on her cheek before Raoul lets her down.

They head to the church. _Église Saint-Augustin de Paris_ , to be specific, in the 8th arrondissement. They are an old French family, and therefore they are Catholic, the rites and rituals ingrained into Raoul even if the de Chagnys are not what she would call devout. Christine tends toward religion more than her, though Raoul hasn’t considered becoming a Protestant, too used to what she was raised with. The church was built during Haussmann's renovation of Paris during the second empire. Raoul grew up during those years, and she only half-remembers old Paris with its medieval narrow streets, no matter how recently they were changed.

The funeral mass is small and private, passing in a blur. Everyone deserves something at the end, but she is not sure Alexandre deserves all of this. They must, however, _do_ all of this, or it would look suspect. Eloise must play the grieving widow, though she is course grieving more than anyone on the outside could know. Juliette and Philippe must be the in-laws and so must Raoul, even though she nearly died because of the man in the casket in front of them. Still, she will do it if keeps them all safe.

The blur fades when they reach the cemetery. It fades because this is the same cemetery where Gustave Daae is buried. Alexandre’s family has a mausoleum here, far across on the other side from Gustave’s much smaller grave. All things considered, Gustave is the one who deserves such finery. Alexandre’s mother and younger sister are the ones in tears, so caught up in their grief that they don’t notice that Eloise, though holding her crying children, is not crying herself. That, Raoul thinks, could be for any number of reasons, shock foremost among them. What her sister is going through is difficult to share, loving someone, thinking you knew them, and then being so utterly betrayed. Thrown as Raoul was by Alexandre’s behavior, Raoul never liked him very well, and his loss is a relief to her—she knows what it is to be haunted, after all, fearing the person who harmed you would return—even if she would never wish someone dead. Her grief is reserved for her sister and her niece and nephew, and not for her brother-in-law.

The family all gather around the casket as the priest says a few words, Christine and Raoul a bit back from the rest, nearer to the few friends of Eloise’s who were invited. White lilies rest atop the black coffin, and Raoul recalls Juliette and Philippe picking them out, hoping to give Eloise one less thing to do.

Christine’s pinky curls tightly around Raoul’s just as Raoul longs to reach for her hand. It is not enough, but it will do, for now. Anxiety shoots through Raoul’s veins as they lower the casket into the ground, images of those terrible days filling her mind, and sensations, too. The cold. The scratchy sheets. The sting of Alexandre’s slap and the headiness of the drugs, stealing her consciousness away. That deep, childlike refrain that kept sweeping through her mind.

_I want to go home._

Christine gasps, putting her hand over her mouth. It’s a tiny, quiet thing, and no one notices but Raoul, who looks up to see what’s the matter.

A wide-brimmed black hat among the trees. The glint of a white mask in the meek winter sun.

The sound of scraping swords rings in Raoul’s memory, and hateful laughter too, snow crunching beneath her boots, but Erik is gone before Raoul is entirely sure she’s seen him.

A few minutes later the service is over, and Raoul and Christine stay behind to visit Gustave, promising to be quick. Marcel waits faithfully as he always does, Jules with him in the driver’s seat today, Juliette and Francois making conversation with them while Raoul and Christine go. As they approach Gustave’s grave, Raoul can’t help but notice the fresh flowers there. Fresh as if they were purchased hours ago.

Yellow roses.

“There’s something else here,” Christine says, wiping some of the icy drizzle off the tombstone, her words catching, presumably at the sight of the flowers. “It’s…” She smiles, picking up the item in question and handing it over to Raoul. “It’s a violin bow.”

It’s cold in her hand when Raoul takes it, and Christine picks up a note with a wax seal: a normal one, and not an alarming red skull. Raoul leans over to read it with her, and the earlier slowly transitions into a snowfall. The sharp, cold air makes Raoul’s chest ache a little, but she’ll be all right.

_Raoul: I noticed when you played the other evening that you could use a new bow and took the liberty of sending Daroga out to buy one. It is the highest quality, of course, as I would not allow any less._

_Christine: enclosed here are some exercises that I think might be useful for your student. I gathered from Juliette that you are teaching young Estelle and wanted to pass them on._

_I shall see both of you when Daroga and I receive your next invitation._

“So he couldn’t simply give us these things when we saw him again?” Raoul asks with a nearly fond roll of her eyes.

“Perhaps he wasn’t sure he would,” Christine answers. “Besides, you could never accuse Erik of not being dramatic.”

“No,” Raoul mutters. “I suppose not. This does look like a good bow.”

Christine carefully places the papers and the letter in the pockets of her skirts, the freshly fallen snow glittering among the strands of her dark curls. Love fills Raoul up the brim, and she thinks of another day in this cemetery, and how far they’ve come since. She tugs at Christine’s cloak, pulling her closer in this empty corner of the graveyard, and daring something. Their lips are cold and chapped when they meet, but Raoul couldn’t care less. She kisses Christine with warmth and ferocity, and Christine returns it with nothing less, puffs of white air between them as they break apart.

“I love you,” Raoul whispers, blinking the snowflakes off her eyelashes.

“My sweetheart,” Christine replies, her gloved hand holding Raoul’s tight. “I love you too.”

They go home, after that. People are there, friends of Eloise’s and Alexandre’s. Alexandre’s family. Despite it all, despite the _thud thud thud_ in her chest at all this pretending, Raoul makes sure Eloise eats while Philippe and Juliette and Francois manage the guests and Christine entertains the children. She stays by her sister’s side, because who else can better share the pain and strangeness of this moment, however differently, than the two of them? Strange, how this has bonded Raoul with her most distant sibling more than anything else prior. In turn, Eloise makes sure Raoul has a chair. She makes sure she has a supply of warm drinks. Doctor Aubert says her normal strength should return soon—she of course asked when she could return to her savate—only commenting that her lungs, from both experiences, will likely always trouble her a bit. Asthma, he thinks, spurred on by everything, but it should not prevent her from doing her sporting activities as long as she knows when to rest and when to stop. A few weeks from now, that is. Small steps. Learning when to rest is not a particular strength of hers, but she likes to think she’s improving, at least.

Once the guests are gone, Raoul reads to the children with Christine’s help, and Estelle lending her voice as promised. Everyone is staying here, tonight, and finally, many hours after Raoul already felt exhausted, she finds herself alone in her bedroom with Christine. She finds herself crying. Really, truly crying, in a way she’s not sure she has since she returned home. Well, she recalls crying while under the influence of the Morphine, but not since she broke free of it. Not like this. She hasn’t had much time to process what happened to her, between her recovery and everything to do with Alexandre’s death. Her body shakes as the sobs come, and it feels terrible and like a relief, all at once, a little bit of the panic she knows so well pushing _up up up._

For once, she doesn’t lecture herself for any of it. She banishes the voices that say _you’re weak_. She’s always been a crier, even at something so simple as a beautiful piece of poetry, though she has, in the past, been remiss in admitting when something is the matter. After the lair, that problem only grew worse. She lets the tears come, because they need to. She lets Christine hold her, and she lets Christine reassure her, because she doesn’t always have to be strong, does she? Admitting that is true strength.

“I’m here,” Christine whispers against Raoul’s ear. “And I always will be.”

_I’m here_ , Raoul said on one of many nights after Don Juan, after Christine had one of a thousand nightmares about Raoul’s death. _And I always will be._

Raoul relaxes in her wife’s arms, and the stars spread out across the Parisian sky, lending them a little light as snow falls upon the glass of the nearby window, lulling them both to sleep. 

* * *

A week after Alexandre’s death, Philippe watches Eloise sort through her husband’s things.

The seven days seem like a year.

Juliette is there, too, speaking kind words to Eloise with a gentleness Philippe’s always admired. He’s always admired her, and he knows for certain he would not have made it through much without her by his side. Trunks and cases of varying shape and size encircle his two sisters—one for things to keep, one for things to donate to a church or some such, one for storage, etcetera. Philippe, meanwhile, has some of Alexandre’s papers in his hands, taken from the study.

The situation is as bad as Raoul made it out to be. Worse. The rents Alexandre charged the farmers on his land in the country were higher than they were supposed to be, and it seems he spent even that money into the red ledger. His debts are considerable, though not impossible—Philippe hopes the sale of the Sceaux house will tend to at least half, and he will tend to the rest, if necessary. He certainly will not allow Jean-Luc and and Claire to inherit their father’s liabilities, nor Eloise, when he has the wealth to prevent it. By law Simone would be owed a small pittance out of Alexandre’s remaining wealth, but that would be difficult to prove given Alexandre never claimed her, and it might also lead to questions and scandal they can ill afford. Regardless, Philippe will make certain the little girl is taken care of.

Alexandre’s will is also in hand, though no surprise to him. Upon the marriage, Alexandre’s parents tried to make it so that Eloise would inherit very little upon their son’s passing, as was the usual law when no will made it otherwise. Philippe intervened, refusing that point. A great many things can be said about Napoleon’s famed code, and it’s unfortunate treatment of women is certainly one of them. He might be the patriarch of an old family, but he is not old-fashioned. He massages his temples. There is much to do, especially given the children are terribly young, Eloise in widow’s clothes, Alexandre’s mother frail, and his father deceased. He must visit the country house, at some point, to address how it is being overseen. He must look into selling the Sceaux house. Even, potentially, this house. He must write to Alexandre’s creditors.

All of this, after Alexandre nearly killed his baby sister, left another with a broken heart, and his niece and nephew without their father.

He could kill Alexandre again, cheerfully.

Eloise sniffs, drawing Philippe from his thoughts.

“Eloise,” Juliette says softly, her hand on Eloise’s back. “I’m sure some of the servants would be willing to do this for you. No one expects you to do this right now.”

“No,” Eloise insists. “We put away Maman’s things ourselves, and Pere too and I…I need to do this. At least with his things I want to keep, though I feel I can hardly look at them, right now.”

“He was your husband.” The floorboards creak as Juliette moves closer to her sister, adjusting her skirts as she does so. “It makes sense you want to keep some things.”

“He tried to kill Raoul.” Another sniff. A bitten back sob. “It seems wrong.”

Philippe steps around, finding his way onto the floor with his sisters. “Raoul would not begrudge you memories of a better time with someone you loved.”

More tears flow from Eloise’s eyes as Juliette affectionately tucks a strand of hair back. “He’s right.”

This, however, only serves to make Eloise cry more, and Philippe meets Juliette’s eyes over the top of their sister’s head.

“Raoul’s too good to bother with me. Too kind.” The anguished words pour from Eloise’s mouth, making Philippe’s heart clench. “She shouldn’t have to. Not after how I treated her for so long. After what Alexandre did.”

Juliette’s arm slides around Eloise’s shoulders. “Now I know she wouldn’t agree with that, either. Raoul loves you, she loves the children, and it’s a new start for you both. Things have changed.”

Eloise nods, leaning a bit against Juliette before casting her focus onto Philippe. “I don’t think I can stay in this house.”

“All right,” Philippe says, having expected this. “Then you may stay with me. There is certainly room.”

“No,” Eloise replies, and now Philippe is confused. She bites her lip, embarrassment creeping red into her cheeks. “I think I would like to move into a new house, a bit smaller than this. Something nearer either Juliette or you. This is so far but I…I feel as if I need my own home, and to keep at least some of the servants on. I…” her glassy eyes divert from Philippe. “It is too much to ask, with everything we must do, and the issue of money and…”

“Eloise…” Philippe brushes the back of his hand against his sister’s cheek, some of the tension visibly leaving her. “It is all right. This price of this house is enough to settle Alexandre’s debts, and the house in Sceaux enough to secure you something new in Paris. Even if it weren’t, I would sort it for you.”

“I don’t want to be a trouble.”

“You are my sister.” The words ring with the love Philippe has always felt for Eloise, without the frustration of the past. “I would see you safe as well as happy. In the meantime, you and the children ought to stay with us. I’ve always felt this place a bit dreary, and now is no time to be without family.”

A sob works its way out of Eloise. Broken. Bruised. Widening the crack in Philippe’s heart. He pulls her to him as he might Raoul, and it feels more natural than he expected. Juliette comes in on the other side of their sister, arms wrapped tight around. They stay there for a while—how long Philippe does not know—and he swears, he _swears_ , that his family will be whole again.

He swears it, and he swears he will not destroy himself, in the process. 

* * *

While the de Chagny siblings are out at Eloise’s, Christine finds herself alone with Erik. Raoul is upstairs napping, and Daroga late to arrive due to an errand. Victor brings them some coffee, pours it, and then they are well and truly by themselves.

Christine adds a touch of cream to hers, smiling at how Raoul always teases her over it, preferring own black, if the coffee is quality enough.

“Daroga has Darius, his servant, though sometimes I think he doesn’t know how to have a servant for all he tries to do everything Darius is meant to do himself,” Erik comments, taking a sip of his own coffee. Black, Christine notes, thought she doesn’t say so. “It must have been strange for you, adjusting to that.”

“The help getting dressed I was at least used to, from the opera,” Christine says. “But it did. Though the staff here is very kind, and they let me do the things I want to on my own. It is a change, from my childhood, and the opera.”

Erik nods, running a hand over his mask in an absentminded sort of way, and she wonders when he takes it off. To sleep, surely. Around Ismael, perhaps?

“I know you are not fond of removing your mask in front of others,” she says, before she loses her nerves. “But if you ever wanted to remove it in front of me, if you grew uncomfortable in it, that would be all right.”

They gaze at each other, a painful memory thrumming between them.

_This haunted face holds no horror for me now. It’s in your soul, that the true distortion lies._

“That’s very kind,” Erik replies after a long moment. “But it does not bother me, usually, unless it is terribly hot. I’m quite used to it.” He pauses, taking another sip of coffee. “And thank you. For inviting me over.”

His gaze flits to one of the portraits over the mantel, the one featuring a very young Raoul. The fire crackles a few feet away, warming them as a deep winter chill sets in over Paris.

“You look happy,” he tells her, a fond gleam in his eyes, one she hasn’t seen before. “I am glad of it.” He thumbs at some nonexistent speck on his black velvet jacket. “Raoul is well?”

Christine nods, her fingers spreading across the warm cup of coffee. “She ought to be down, before you go. Doctor Aubert says she should be back to normal in a week or two. Now that the Morphine has gone it’s the concussion and the small wounds and the mental strain of it all. Her lungs are improved, too.”

“Having someone try to murder you does tend to take a toll,” Erik says wryly.

“She has nightmares, and so do I,” Christine adds, knowing it might make Erik uncomfortable, but as much as her feelings toward him have altered, she swore to herself at the beginning of this that she would not hold back. “Though that is not new for us”

“No,” Erik whispers, not drawing back at her honesty. “I imagine it isn’t.”

The fire crackles louder—or perhaps that’s just her nerves—and she decides to say something her scars aren’t sure she’s ready for, but that her heart insists upon. She sets her coffee cup down, sitting up straight in her chair.

“I have been thinking upon it,” she says, looking him straight in the eye, her hands perspiring as she folds them in her lap. “And I…I forgive you, Erik. For what happened. Though I must also admit that I will never forget it.”

A would-be scowl passes across his face, Christine’s heart thumping against her chest in the wrong key. His scowl vanishes, replaced with some mix of a challenge and a smile.

“Why?”

“Because Raoul said she told you that she was willing to consider the two of you even. And I always told myself that I could not offer my forgiveness to you until she offered hers.”

The scowl, the challenge, the smile, turns into a laugh. A shake of the head.

“Whatever are you laughing at?” she protests, her voice going more high-pitched. “I’m being perfectly serious.”

“I know you are.” The laugh fades, though it imprints on Christine’s memory for how real and lacking in bitterness it is. She’s never, she realizes, heard him laugh so genuinely. It makes him sound younger. “It’s only, Raoul said something similar, when I spoke to her.” He grows more solemn, clearing his throat as though he’s chiding himself for laughing. “You are meant for each other, aren’t you? I was just too jealous a fool to see it.”

Christine wipes her sweaty hands on her deep blue walking dress—she’d been out for some air, before Erik arrived—an old childhood habit she’s never quite broken. Much as she tries to keep her appearance all in order, her soul will always belong in part to the little girl she was, the little girl with saltwater in her hair and a red scarf tied haphazardly enough that the wind could catch it. Though, she thinks with a smile, she’s glad that happened, or where would she be now?

“Thank you, Christine.” Erik stumbles on the words like he might have said _angel_ , and stopped himself. “Truly. I have been longing to hear those words since we started this endeavor, but I…” his fingers curl toward his palms. “I am thankful that you and Raoul have seen fit to forgive me my trespasses. I am, however, not ready to forgive myself.”

“Erik…”

He holds up a hand, though in a way that does not make her flinch as it once might have.

“I once viewed your forgiveness as a transaction, something owed to me if I redeemed myself. Then redemption became atonement. Then I realized the depths of what I’d done. Your forgiveness means you have done more healing after what I did, though I know you and Raoul will always bear the scars. I’m glad you were able to heal. That I was able to help you now. But it will be some time, before I come to terms with the man I didn’t want to admit I was, even after I let you go.”

Tears spring to Christine’s eyes. “I understand. But I do hope you are able to forgive yourself one day.”

She means it, truly she does. What happened that night in the lair will always haunt her. She will have nightmares. So will Raoul. It altered them. But she is ready to move forward. She is ready to forgive the man who used to be her teacher. She does not believe, as some do, that forgiveness is incumbent upon the person who was harmed, but she has long been a believer in second chances, in the best of people even if they hurt her, and she wanted to do this, for Erik, but also for herself. She wasn’t sure she could, at first, but when Erik picked Raoul up in his arms a few days ago, she knew what her choice would be.

She holds out her hand to him, palm up. A few months ago, she hated the idea of him touching her ever again, and she is not comfortable with prolonged contact now, but it does not terrify her so. It does not transport her back to Don Juan, because Erik has changed. A touch of the hand, a brief embrace in thanks, will not be interpreted as something more. Even his voice is different. Still silky. Still strange. But honest. True. He is not lying to her or attempting to cast a spell. His voice used to seem so perfect, and now she hears the humanity in it, instead.

He hesitates, grasping her fingers, that smirkish sort of smile on his face like he isn’t used to smiling.

“I appreciated the exercises for Estelle, by the way,” she says, squeezing his fingers before letting go. “And Raoul the bow. You could have given them to us here.”

“I wasn’t certain you’d invite me.”

“I said I would, Erik.”

“You might have changed your mind.”

She sighs, blowing a stray strand of hair out of her face just as there’s a knock on the door. Lucien answers it, and Ismael steps inside after a moment or two.

“You are _late_ ,” Erik admonishes. “I’ve never known you to be late.”

Ismael bows deeply, sweeping off his red cap. “My sincerest apologies.”

Christine giggles, earning a wink from Ismael and a huff from Erik. She pours Ismael a cup of the freshly brewed coffee, and soon enough Raoul is dressed and downstairs, rested from her nap. Some things lay uncertain before them: the opera, Simone, Eloise. What happened hovers at the edges of her mind, and she thinks she’ll never, in her life, forget how cold Raoul’s fingers felt as too much Morphine pumped through her veins. But for now Raoul is warm, they are safe, and somehow, some way, they are having coffee with the opera ghost.

Miracles, she supposes, really do happen. 

* * *

“Christine Daae, you are the most stubborn person alive.”

Christine snorts. Raoul’s busy pulling her nightdress over her head, so she doesn’t see Christine roll her eyes, but she hears it, nevertheless. They headed up to bed after spending the evening with Meg and Simone, who is still staying at Madame’s until things in the de Chagny house settle down. Though, what exact role they’ll take remains to be seen. Simone will be safe and cared for, whatever happens.

“You are one to talk of stubbornness, Raoul de Chagny. I am not returning until you do. Carlotta can stand in for me in rehearsal until then.”

“I plan to return a mere handful of days after rehearsal is set to begin!” Raoul protests, eyeing Christine’s lithe form in the mirror as nightgown goes over her head. “I just need a bit more rest and for these bandages to come off. There’s no point in you delaying. I will be perfectly fine here with plenty of people to watch over me.”

Christine spins around with one hand on her hip, her chaotic, beautiful curls spilling over her shoulders. “ _No_.”

Raoul’s familiar enough with that tease in Christine’s voice. She slips up behind her wife, one arm snaking around Christine’s waist as she shifts some hair out of the way.

“What if I did this?” Raoul asks, pressing a feather-light kiss to Christine’s neck.

“No.” Christine stands firm, though she does melt back into Raoul a bit.

“What about this?”

Raoul puts a kiss behind Christine’s ear instead, one hand trailing lightly across her chest. Christine shivers right on time, biting back a laugh.

“You will not win an argument via seduction,” Christine says. “No matter how adept you may be.”

Raoul twirls Christine around, pressing her against a nearby wall, their fingers intertwined.

“I’m adept, am I?” she whispers right in Christine’s ear.

“I’d say so, yes.” Christine’s breathy now. Warm. “In my experience.”

“But it’s not enough to win the argument?”

“No.”

Desire shoots through Raoul, mind, body, and soul, and she has to kiss Christine right _now_ , or she might die. She explores Christine’s mouth, gently at first and then more desperately as Christine returns the kiss with fervor. Their tangled fingers come undone when Raoul buries her hands in Christine’s hair. Christine gives a little high-pitched noise of glee, and she presses her body flush against Raoul’s, her hands moving playfully low toward Raoul’s backside. Needing to catch her breath, Raoul moves to Christine’s neck again. The scent of violets fills her nose from the remaining traces of Christine’s perfume. Roses, too, from placing some new ones in their little sitting room earlier today.

“I love you,” Raoul whispers, placing a kiss at the place where Christine’s neck meets her shoulders.

“Raoul…” Christine breathes, her voice shot through with need and vulnerability, all at once.

Raoul’s next kiss lingers, and Christine arches her neck, giving her better access.

“Thank you for saving me,” Raoul says, her lips still against Christine’s skin. “Thank you, darling.”

Here she is again, near tears during sex. It is not terribly dashing, she supposes, but there is too much in her to hold them back.

“You are my life,” Christine murmurs, her eyes fluttering closed as Raoul pulls away, tracing her collarbone. “I couldn’t do anything else.”

Christine’s heart goes aflutter, Raoul feels it beneath her fingers, and my _God_ she is beautiful: her dark hair, her rosy skin, those long eyelashes, the curve of her body that makes Raoul want want _want_ her. 

“I don’t think I’ve thanked you properly.” Raoul rests their foreheads together. “I should remedy that.”

Christine opens her eyes, chest heaving as her hands go to rest on Raoul’s hips. “Is that so?”

“It is indeed, Mademoiselle Daae.”

Raoul divests Christine of her clothing before practically tearing off her own. A delighted giggle pierces the air as Raoul picks Christine up, depositing her on the bed with an eager laugh of her own.

She kisses every inch of Christine she can reach. She murmurs _I love you_ and _thank you_ a thousand times against Christine’s skin, hoping the words will imprint themselves there _._ A thank you for saving her. For loving her. For never, ever giving up on her.

“You are so brave,” Raoul says, her lips trailing across Christine’s right inner thigh, and then her left. “And you are my hero.”

Christine shivers, and then there is no more need for words. Raoul is rather occupied, besides.

Raoul revels in every single sound Christine makes, counting herself lucky to have been honored with the blessing of her love. There’s something sacred in the way Christine calls out Raoul’s name a few minutes later, something that nearly makes Raoul cry again. She rests her chin against Christine’s stomach when it’s over, pleased at how long it takes her wife to catch her breath.

“Changed your mind?” Raoul asks with a grin, running a hand through her hair, mussed from how Christine’s fingers tangled in it.

“Hmm,” Christine says, her cheeks flushed as she runs her thumb over Raoul’s lips. “We’ll see. Come here.”

Raoul complies, kissing Christine deeply before finding herself eased onto her side, Christine laying tight against her, one leg hooked around Raoul’s, one arm wrapped around her waist. They lay like that for a moment or two until Christine starts skimming her knuckles up and down Raoul’s body, drawing out a gasp.

“Christine,” Raoul whispers. “Christine, I…”

“Shhh,” Christine says, not stopping as she she locks her leg tighter around Raoul’s. “I know.”

Christine’s other hand moves lower and Raoul cries out, her eyes falling shut as she gives into the touch, having thought, there in Alexandre’s cold bedroom, that she might never feel it again. She heard, for so long, that this, what she desired, was wrong. Sinful. And Alexandre was determined to make her believe it, but how on earth could it be, when it feels so right her soul might lift to the heavens?

Good lord, Christine is good at this. She might be the singer of the two of them, but she plays Raoul like an instrument.

Raoul’s entire body melts when she reaches her peak, and Christine flips her onto her back soon after, resting her weight on top of Raoul’s taller frame, her head tucked beneath Raoul’s neck.

“I’ve been thinking,” Raoul says, sweeping her knuckles across Christine’s back, some sweat droplets coming away.

“About wanting me?” Christine asks, that tease from earlier in her voice.

“Well yes,” Raoul answers, a soft laugh punctuating the words. “It was terribly annoying not to be well enough to thank you properly, as I said. But about something else too.”

Christine adjusts, crossing her arms over Raoul’s stomach, and resting her chin on her hands so they can look at each other, her bottom half tucked between Raoul’s legs.

“What’s that?” Christine replies, more serious now.

“Simone.” The catch in her own voices comes as a surprise, though she supposes it shouldn’t. “I know you let go of the idea of being a biological mother when you agreed to be with me…”

A scolding look passes across Christine’s face. “And I don’t regret it,” she interrupts, firm.

“I know that,” Raoul says, so in love she might cry _again_. “But I was thinking…”

“We could take in Simone ourselves, more permanently.” Christine interrupts a second time, her legs moving back and forth as she kicks them into the air behind her. “Is that what you mean?”

Raoul’s smile makes her face ache. “It is what I was thinking. I know things are chaotic, and our lives are busy in normal times, but I keep coming back around to it.”

“I do too. I just wasn’t sure when to bring it up, with everything. But I kept thinking how alone I felt when I was not much older than her, and I hate the idea of looking for another family to take her in. I felt sad, when she left today.”

“Juliette’s the only mother I ever had.” Raoul’s reaches for the locket of her mother’s Philippe gave her, still wearing it despite her lack of clothing. “Hopefully watching her taught me enough to be one.”

“I barely knew my own,” Christine adds, crawling back up Raoul’s body to kiss her. “But I think we can do it. I think we want to do it.”

“Yes.” Joy fills Raoul up to the point of giddiness. “Yes I think you’re right. Philippe would likely need to be her official guardian—we’ll have to sort out legalities—but we would take charge, though as fond as he seems to be of her I think he might be more than eager to help. Do you…” this thought had not occurred to Raoul, the shreds of old nerves, old anxieties, echoing in her mind. “…do you think she’d want to stay here? I know she misses her mother terribly, but I want her to have a safe home, with people who care.”

“Oh my love,” Christine says, kissing Raoul once more before moving to her side of the bed and pulling the bedclothes snug over them both. “I think she’d like nothing better.”

An old, familiar melody plays in Raoul’s head as she gazes at Christine. The melody Daddy Daae used to play for them deep into the hours of the night as they shared stories up in the old attic. Raoul’s not even certain who wrote the piece, though Erik seemed to know it, somehow, that fateful day in the graveyard.

_The Resurrection of Lazarus._

She knew those notes anywhere. Still, she has fond memories of the tune, embedded as it is in those childhood memories of Christine and her father.

Emotion builds in Raoul’s throat, her next words a little hoarse. “Wonderful. Funny, how we were thinking the same thing. Now…” she quirks one eyebrow. “As to our earlier argument…”

“I think you should try and convince me again,” Christine says, her palm resting against the middle of Raoul’s chest, running her toes up and down Raoul’s calf beneath the covers. “Perhaps that will do the trick.”

“Hmmm,” Raoul murmurs, moving in for another long, lingering kiss as she rolls Christine onto her back, pressing their bodes together. “I would be delighted to do so.”

Christine giggles again, and as they lose themselves in one another, Raoul swears she will keep hold of this joy, and hold on tight, whatever comes.

Whatever comes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> According to my calculations, there should be one normal chapter and an epilogue left, though if needed there might be one other chapter--we will see!


End file.
